THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   MAN  WHO 
COULD   NOT   LOSE 


They  found  Dromedary  in  the  paddock,  and  thanked  him, 
and  Carter  left  Dolly  with  him. 


THE  NOVELS  AND  STORIES  OF 
RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


THE  MAN  WHO 
COULD   NOT   LOSE 


BY 

RICHARD  HARDING   DAVIS 


WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

LEONARD   WOOD 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

IQl8 


The  first  seven  stories  in  this  volume  from  "The  Man 
Who  Could  Not  Lose,"  copyright,  1911,  by  CHARLES 
SCRIBNBR'S  SONS. 


;  "  The  Log  of  the  '  Jolly  Polly,'  "  copyright,  1915,  by  THE 
METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  COMPANY. 


COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


ps 

)£ 

M3I 


RICHARD   HARDING   DAVIS 

THE  death  of  Richard  Harding  Davis  was  a  real 
loss  to  the  movement  for  preparedness.  Mr.  Davis 
had  an  extensive  experience  as  a  military  observer, 
and  thoroughly  appreciated  the  need  of  a  general 
training  system  like  that  of  Australia  or  Switzerland 
and  of  thorough  organization  of  our  industrial  re 
sources  in  order  to  establish  a  condition  of  reason 
able  preparedness  in  this  country.  A  few  days  be 
fore  his  death  he  came  to  Governors  Island  for  the 
purpose  of  ascertaining  in  what  line  of  work  he  could 
be  most  useful  in  building  up  sound  public  opinion 
in  favor  of  such  preparedness  as  would  give  us  a 
real  peace  insurance.  His  mind  was  bent  on  de 
voting  his  energies  and  abilities  to  the  work  of 
public  education  on  this  vitally  important  subject, 
and  few  men  were  better  qualified  to  do  so,  for  he 
had  served  as  a  military  observer  in  many  campaigns. 

Throughout  the  Cuban  campaign  he  was  attached 
to  the  headquarters  of  my  regiment  in  Cuba  as  a 
military  observer.  He  was  with  the  advanced  party 
at  the  opening  of  the  fight  at  Las  Guasimas,  and  was 
distinguished  throughout  the  fight  by  coolness  and 
good  conduct.  He  also  participated  in  the  battle 
of  San  Juan  and  the  siege  of  Santiago,  and  as  an 

v 

65S4GO 


RICHARD    HARDING    DAVIS 

observer  was  always  where  duty  called  him.  He 
was  a  delightful  companion,  cheerful,  resourceful, 
and  thoughtful  of  the  interests  and  wishes  of  others. 
His  reports  of  the  campaign  were  valuable  and  among 
the  best  and  most  accurate. 

The  Plattsburg  movement  took  very  strong  hold 
of  him.  He  saw  in  this  a  great  instrument  for  build 
ing  up  a  sound  knowledge  concerning  our  military 
history  and  policy,  also  a  very  practical  way  of 
training  men  for  the  duties  of  junior  officers.  He 
realized  fully  that  we  should  need  in  case  of  war 
tens  of  thousands  of  officers  with  our  newly  raised 
troops,  and  that  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to 
prepare  them  in  the  hurry  and  confusion  of  the  on 
rush  of  modern  war.  His  heart  was  filled  with  a 
desire  to  serve  his  country  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 
His  recent  experience  in  Europe  pointed  out  to  him 
the  absolute  madness  of  longer  disregarding  the  need 
of  doing  those  things  which  reasonable  preparedness 
dictates,  the  things  which  cannot  be  accomplished 
after  trouble  is  upon  us.  He  had  in  mind  at  the 
time  of  his  death  a  series  of  articles  to  be  written 
especially  to  build  up  interest  in  universal  military 
training  through  conveying  to  our  people  an  under 
standing  of  what  organization  as  it  exists  to-day 
means,  and  how  vitally  important  it  is  for  our  peo 
ple  to  do  in  time  of  peace  those  things  which  modern 
war  does  not  permit  done  once  it  is  under  way. 

Davis  was  a  loyal  friend,  a  thorough-going  Ameri 
can  devoted  to  the  best  interests  of  his  country, 
courageous,  sympathetic,  and  true.  His  loss  has 

vi 


RICHARD    HARDING   DAVIS 

been  a  very  real  one  to  all  of  us  who  knew  and  ap 
preciated  him,  and  in  his  death  the  cause  of  pre 
paredness  has  lost  an  able  worker  and  the  country 
a  devoted  and  loyal  citizen. 

LEONARD  WOOD. 


Vll 


CONTENTS 

Richard  Harding  Davis Leonard  Wood 


PACK 

THE   MAN    WHO    COULD    NOT    LOSE        ....  I 

MY   BURIED   TREASURE 62 

THE    CONSUL 93 

THE    NATURE    FAKER 128 

BILLY   AND   THE    BIG   STICK 149 

THE    FRAME-UP        186 

THE    LOST    HOUSE        223 

"THE    LOG   OF   THE    'JOLLY    POLLY'"  .     .     .     .  312 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THEY  FOUND  DROMEDARY  IN  THE  PADDOCK, 
AND  THANKED  HIM,  AND  CARTER  LEFT 
DOLLY  WITH  HIM Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

AS  THOUGH  GIVING  A   SIGNAL,   HE  SHOT  HIS 

FREE   HAND   INTO   THE   AIR 28 

IN  HIS  HANDS  HE  CLUTCHED  THE  TWO  SUIT 
CASES.  .  .  .  "GET  OUT!"  HE  SHOUTED  .  .  88 

"THEN  I  AM  TO  UNDERSTAND,"  HE  EX 
CLAIMED,  "THAT  YOU  REFUSE  TO  CARRY 
OUT  THE  WISHES  OF  A  UNITED  STATES 
SENATOR  AND  OF  THE  PRESIDENT  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES?" I2O 

IN  A  COCKNEY  ACCENT  THAT  MADE  EVEN 
THE  ACCOMPANIST  GRIN,  FORD  LIFTED  HIS 
VOICE 244 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD 
NOT  LOSE 

THE  Carters  had  married  in  haste  and  refused 
to  repent  at  leisure.  So  blindly  were  they  in 
love,  that  they  considered  their  marriage  their 
greatest  asset.  The  rest  of  the  world,  as  repre 
sented  by  mutual  friends,  considered  it  the  only 
thing  that  could  be  urged  against  either  of  them. 
While  single,  each  had  been  popular.  As  a 
bachelor,  young  "Champ"  Carter  had  filled  his 
modest  place  acceptably.  Hostesses  sought  him 
for  dinners  and  week-end  parties,  men  of  his 
own  years,  for  golf  and  tennis,  and  young  girls 
liked  him  because  when  he  talked  to  one  of 
them  he  never  talked  of  himself,  or  let  his  eyes 
wander  toward  any  other  girl.  He  had  been 
brought  up  by  a  rich  father  in  an  expensive  way, 
and  the  rich  father  had  then  died  leaving  Champ- 
neys  alone  in  the  world,  with  no  money,  and 
with  even  a  few  of  his  father's  debts.  These 
debts  of  honor  the  son,  ever  since  leaving  Yale, 
had  been  paying  off.  It  had  kept  him  very 
poor,  for  Carter  had  elected  to  live  by  his  pen, 
and,  though  he  wrote  very  carefully  and  slowly, 
the  editors  of  the  magazines  had  been  equally 
careful  and  slow  in  accepting  what  he  wrote. 

I 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

With  an  income  so  uncertain  that  the  only 
thing  that  could  be  said  of  it  with  certainty  was 
that  it  was  too  small  to  support  even  himself, 
Carter  should  not  have  thought  of  matrimony. 
Nor,  must  it  be  said  to  his  credit,  did  he  think 
of  it  until  the  girl  came  along  that  he  wanted  to 
marry. 

The  trouble  with  Dolly  Ingram  was  her 
mother.  Her  mother  was  a  really  terrible  per 
son.  She  was  quite  impossible.  She  was  a 
social  leader,  and  of  such  importance  that 
visiting  princes  and  society  reporters,  even 
among  themselves,  did  not  laugh  at  her.  Her 
visiting  list  was  so  small  that  she  did  not  keep 
a  social  secretary,  but,  it  was  said,  wrote  her 
invitations  herself.  Stylites  on  his  pillar  was 
less  exclusive.  Nor  did  he  take  his  exalted  but 
lonely  position  with  less  sense  of  humor.  When 
Ingram  died  and  left  her  many  millions  to  dis 
pose  of  absolutely  as  she  pleased,  even  to  the 
allowance  she  should  give  their  daughter,  he 
left  her  with  but  one  ambition  unfulfilled. 
That  was  to  marry  her  Dolly  to  an  English  duke. 
Hungarian  princes,  French  marquises,  Italian 
counts,  German  barons,  Mrs.  Ingram  could  not 
see.  Her  son-in-law  must  be  a  duke.  She  had 
her  eyes  on  two,  one  somewhat  shopworn,  and 
the  other  a  bankrupt;  and  in  training,  she  had 
one  just  coming  of  age.  Already  she  saw  her- 

2 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

self  a  sort  of  a  dowager  duchess  by  marriage, 
discussing  with  real  dowager  duchesses  the  way 
to  bring  up  teething  earls  and  viscounts.  For 
three  years  in  Europe  Mrs.  Ingram  had  been 
drilling  her  daughter  for  the  part  she  intended 
her  to  play.  But,  on  returning  to  her  native 
land,  Dolly,  who  possessed  all  the  feelings, 
thrills,  and  heart-throbs  of  which  her  mother 
was  ignorant,  ungratefully  fell  deeply  in  love 
with  Champneys  Carter,  and  he  with  her. 

It  was  always  a  question  of  controversy  be 
tween  them  as  to  which  had  first  fallen  in  love 
with  the  other.  As  a  matter  of  history,  honors 
were  even. 

He  first  saw  her  during  a  thunder  storm,  in 
the  paddock  at  the  races,  wearing  a  rain-coat 
with  the  collar  turned  up  and  a  Panama  hat 
with  the  brim  turned  down.  She  was  talking, 
in  terms  of  affectionate  familiarity,  with  Cuth- 
bert's  two-year-old,  The  Scout.  The  Scout 
had  just  lost  a  race  by  a  nose,  and  Dolly  was 
holding  the  nose  against  her  cheek  and  com 
forting  him.  The  two  made  a  charming  picture, 
and,  as  Carter  stumbled  upon  it  and  halted, 
the  race-horse  lowered  his  eyes  and  seemed  to 
say:  "Wouldn't  you  throw  a  race  for  this?" 
And  the  girl  raised  her  eyes  and  seemed  to  say: 
"What  a  nice-looking,  bright-looking  young 
man!  Why  don't  I  know  who  you  are?" 

3 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

So,  Carter  ran  to  find  Cuthbert,  and  told  him 
The  Scout  had  gone  lame.  When,  on  their 
return,  Miss  Ingram  refused  to  loosen  her  hold 
on  The  Scout's  nose,  Cuthbert  apologetically 
mumbled  Carter's  name,  and  in  some  awe  Miss 
Ingram's  name,  and  then,  to  his  surprise,  both 
young  people  lost  interest  in  The  Scout,  and 
wandered  away  together  into  the  rain. 

After  an  hour,  when  they  parted  at  the  club 
stand,  for  which  Carter  could  not  afford  a  ticket, 
he  asked  wistfully:  "Do  you  often  come 
racing?"  and  Miss  Ingram  said:  "Do  you  mean, 
am  I  coming  to-morrow?" 

"I  do!"  said  Carter. 

"Then,  why  didn't  you  say  that?"  inquired 
Miss  Ingram.  "Otherwise  I  mightn't  have 
come.  I  have  the  Holland  House  coach  for 
to-morrow,  and,  if  you'll  join  us,  I'll  save  a 
place  for  you,  and  you  can  sit  in  our  box. 

"I've  lived  so  long  abroad,"  she  explained, 
"that  I'm  afraid  of  not  being  simple  and  direct 
like  other  American  girls.  Do  you  think  I'll 
get  on  here  at  home?" 

"If  you  get  on  with  every  one  else  as  well  as 
you've  got  on  with  me,"  said  Carter  morosely, 
"I  will  shoot  myself." 

Miss  Ingram  smiled  thoughtfully. 

"At  eleven,  then,"  she  said,  "in  front  of  the 
Holland  House." 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Carter  walked  away  with  a  flurried,  heated 
suffocation  around  his  heart  and  a  joyous  light 
ness  in  his  feet.  Of  the  first  man  he  met  he 
demanded,  who  was  the  beautiful  girl  in  the 
rain-coat?  And  when  the  man  told  him,  Carter 
left  him  without  speaking.  For  she  was  quite 
the  richest  girl  in  America.  But  the  next  day 
that  fault  seemed  to  distress  her  so  little  that 
Carter,  also,  refused  to  allow  it  to  rest  on  his 
conscience,  and  they  were  very  happy.  And 
each  saw  that  they  were  happy  because  they 
were  together. 

The  ridiculous  mother  was  not  present  at  the 
iaces,  but  after  Carter  began  to  call  at  their 
house  and  was  invited  to  dinner,  Mrs.  Ingram 
received  him  with  her  habitual  rudeness.  As 
an  impediment  in  the  success  of  her  ambition 
she  never  considered  him.  As  a  boy  friend  of 
her  daughter's,  she  classed  him  with  "her"  law 
yer  and  "her"  architect  and  a  little  higher  than 
the  "person"  who  arranged  the  flowers.  Nor, 
in  her  turn,  did  Dolly  consider  her  mother;  for 
within  two  months  another  matter  of  contro 
versy  between  Dolly  and  Carter  was  as  to  who 
had  first  proposed  to  the  other.  Carter  pro 
tested  there  never  had  been  any  formal  proposal, 
that  from  the  first  they  had  both  taken  it  for 
granted  that  married  they  would  be.  But 
Dolly  insisted  that  because  he  had  been  afraid 

5 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

of  her  money,  or  her  mother,  he  had  forced  her 
to  propose  to  him. 

"You  could  not  have  loved  me  very  much," 
she  complained,  "if  you'd  let  a  little  thing  like 
money  make  you  hesitate." 

"It's  not  a  little  thing,"  suggested  Carter. 
"They  say  it's  several  millions,  and  it  happens 
to  be  yours.  If  it  were  mine,  now !" 

"Money,"  said  Dolly  sententiously,  "is  given 
people  to  make  them  happy,  not  to  make  them 
miserable." 

"Wait  until  I  sell  my  stories  to  the  maga 
zines,"  said  Carter,  "and  then  I  will  be  inde 
pendent  and  can  support  you." 

The  plan  did  not  strike  Dolly  as  one  likely  to 
lead  to  a  hasty  marriage.  But  he  was  sensitive 
about  his  stories,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  hurt 
his  feelings. 

"Let's  get  married  first,"  she  suggested,  "and 
then  I  can  buy  you  a  magazine.  We'll  call  it 
Carter's  Magazine  and  we  will  print  nothing  in 
it  but  your  stories.  Then  we  can  laugh  at  the 
editors!" 

"Not  half  as  loud  as  they  will,"  said  Carter. 

With  three  thousand  dollars  in  bank  and  three 
stories  accepted  and  seventeen  still  to  hear  from, 
and  with  Dolly  daily  telling  him  that  it  was  evi 
dent  he  did  not  love  her,  Carter  decided  they 
were  ready,  hand  in  hand,  to  leap  into  the  sea 

6 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

of  matrimony.  His  interview  on  the  subject 
with  Mrs.  Ingram  was  most  painful.  It  lasted 
during  the  time  it  took  her  to  walk  out  of  her 
drawing-room  to  the  foot  of  her  staircase.  She 
spoke  to  herself,  and  the  only  words  of  which 
Carter  was  sure  were  "preposterous"  and 
"intolerable  insolence."  Later  in  the  morning 
she  sent  a  note  to  his  flat,  forbidding  him  not 
only  her  daughter,  but  the  house  in  which  her 
daughter  lived,  and  even  the  use  of  the  United 
States  mails  and  the  New  York  telephone 
wires.  She  described  his  conduct  in  words 
that,  had  they  come  from  a  man,  would  have 
afforded  Carter  every  excuse  for  violent  exercise. 

Immediately  in  the  wake  of  the  note  arrived 
Dolly,  in  tears,  and  carrying  a  dressing-case. 

" I  have  left  mother !"  she  announced.  "And 
I  have  her  car  downstairs,  and  a  clergyman  in 
it,  unless  he  has  run  away.  He  doesn't  want  to 
marry  us,  because  he's  afraid  mother  will  stop 
supporting  his  flower  mission.  You  get  your 
hat  and  take  me  where  he  can  marry  us.  No 
mother  can  talk  about  the  man  I  love  the  way 
mother  talked  about  you,  and  think  I  won't 
marry  him  the  same  day !" 

Carter,  with  her  mother's  handwriting  still 
red  before  his  eyes,  and  his  self-love  shaken 
with  rage,  flourished  the  letter. 

"And  no  mother,"  he  shouted,  "can  call  me 

7 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

a  'fortune-hunter'  and  a  'cradle-robber'  and 
think  I'll  make  good  by  marrying  her  daughter ! 
Not  until  she  BEGS  me  to!" 

Dolly  swept  toward  him  like  a  summer  storm. 
Her  eyes  were  wet  and  flashing. 

"Until  who  begs  you  to?"  she  demanded. 
"Who  are  you  marrying;  mother  or  me?" 

"If  I  marry  you,"  cried  Carter,  frightened  but 
also  greatly  excited,  "your  mother  won't  give 
you  a  penny!" 

"And  that,"  taunted  Dolly,  perfectly  aware 
that  she  was  ridiculous,  "is  why  you  won't 
marry  me!" 

For  an  instant,  long  enough  to  make  her 
blush  with  shame  and  happiness,  Carter  grinned 
at  her.  "Now,  just  for  that,"  he  said,  "I  won't 
kiss  you,  and  I  will  marry  you!" 

But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  kiss  her. 

Then  he  gazed  happily  around  his  small 
sitting-room. 

"Make  yourself  at  home  here,"  he  directed, 
"while  I  pack  my  bag." 

"  I  mean  to  make  myself  very  much  at  home 
here,"  said  Dolly  joyfully,  "for  the  rest  of  my 
life." 

From  the  recesses  of  the  flat  Carter  called: 
"The  rent's  paid  only  till  September.  After 
that  we  live  in  a  hall  bedroom  and  cook  on  a 
gas-stove.  And  that's  no  idle  jest,  either." 

8 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Fearing  the  publicity  of  the  City  Hall  license 
bureau,  they  released  the  clergyman,  much  to 
the  relief  of  that  gentleman,  and  told  the 
chauffeur  to  drive  across  the  State  line  into 
Connecticut. 

"It's  the  last  time  we  can  borrow  your 
mother's  car,"  said  Carter,  "and  we'd  better 
make  it  go  as  far  as  we  can." 

It  was  one  of  those  days  in  May.  Blue  was 
the  sky  and  sunshine  was  in  the  air,  and  in  the 
park  little  girls  from  the  tenements,  in  white, 
were  playing  they  were  queens.  Dolly  wanted 
to  kidnap  two  of  them  for  bridesmaids.  In 
Harlem  they  stopped  at  a  jeweller's  shop,  and 
Carter  got  out  and  bought  a  wedding-ring. 

In  the  Bronx  were  dogwood  blossoms  and 
leaves  of  tender  green  and  beds  of  tulips,  and 
along  the  Boston  Post  Road,  on  their  right, 
the  Sound  flashed  in  the  sunlight;  and  on  their 
left,  gardens,  lawns,  and  orchards  ran  with  the 
road,  and  the  apple  trees  were  masses  of  pink 
and  white. 

Whenever  a  car  approached  from  the  rear, 
Carter  pretended  it  was  Mrs.  Ingram  coming  to 
prevent  the  elopement,  and  Dolly  clung  to  him. 
When  the  car  had  passed,  she  forgot  to  stop 
clinging  to  him. 

In  Greenwich  Village  they  procured  a  license, 
and  a  magistrate  married  them,  and  they  were 

9 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

a  little  frightened  and  greatly  happy  and,  they 
both  discovered  simultaneously,  outrageously 
hungry.  So  they  drove  through  Bedford  Vil 
lage  to  South  Salem,  and  lunched  at  the  Horse 
and  Hounds  Inn,  on  blue  and  white  china,  in 
the  same  room  where  Major  Andre  was  once  a 
prisoner.  And  they  felt  very  sorry  for  Major 
Andre,  and  for  everybody  who  had  not  been 
just  married  that  morning.  And  after  lunch 
they  sat  outside  in  the  garden  and  fed  lumps  of 
sugar  to  a  charming  collie  and  cream  to  a  fat 
gray  cat. 

They  decided  to  start  housekeeping  in  Carter's 
flat,  and  so  turned  back  to  New  York,  this  time 
following  the  old  coach  road  through  North 
Castle  to  White  Plains,  across  to  Tarrytown, 
and  along  the  bank  of  the  Hudson  into  River 
side  Drive.  Millions  and  millions  of  friendly 
folk,  chiefly  nurse-maids  and  traffic  policemen, 
waved  to  them,  and  for  some  reason  smiled. 

"The  joke  of  it  is,"  declared  Carter,  "they 
don't  know !  The  most  wonderful  event  of  the 
century  has  just  passed  into  history.  We  are 
married,  and  nobody  knows!" 

But  when  the  car  drove  away  from  in  front  of 
Carter's  door,  they  saw  on  top  of  it  two  old 
shoes  and  a  sign  reading:  "We  have  just  been 
married."  While  they  had  been  at  luncheon, 
the  chauffeur  had  risen  to  the  occasion. 

10 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"After  all,"  said  Carter  soothingly,  "he  meant 
no  harm.  And  it's  the  only  thing  about  our 
wedding  yet  that  seems  legal." 

Three  months  later  two  very  unhappy  young 
people  faced  starvation  in  the  sitting-room  of 
Carter's  flat.  Gloom  was  written  upon  the 
countenance  of  each,  and  the  heat  and  the  care 
that  comes  when  one  desires  to  live,  and  lacks 
the  wherewithal  to  fulfil  that  desire,  had  made 
them  pallid  and  had  drawn  black  lines  under 
Dolly's  eyes. 

Mrs.  Ingram  had  played  her  part  exactly  as 
her  dearest  friends  had  said  she  would.  She 
had  sent  to  Carter's  flat,  seven  trunks  filled  with 
Dolly's  clothes,  eighteen  hats,  and  another  most 
unpleasant  letter.  In  this,  on  the  sole  condition 
that  Dolly  would  at  once  leave  her  husband,  she 
offered  to  forgive  and  to  support  her. 

To  this  Dolly  composed  eleven  scornful 
answers,  but  finally  decided  that  no  answer  at 
all  was  the  most  scornful. 

She  and  Carter  then  proceeded  joyfully  to 
waste  his  three  thousand  dollars  with  that  con 
tempt  for  money  with  which  on  a  honey-moon 
it  should  always  be  regarded.  When  there  was 
no  more,  Dolly  called  upon  her  mother's  lawyers 
and  inquired  if  her  father  had  left  her  anything 
in  her  own  right.  The  lawyers  regretted  he 
had  not,  but  having  loved  Dolly  since  she  was 

ii 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

born,  offered  to  advance  her  any  money  she 
wanted.  They  said  they  felt  sure  her  mother 
would  "relent." 

"  SHE  may,"  said  Dolly  haughtily.  "  /  won't ! 
And  my  husband  can  give  me  all  I  need.  I  only 
wanted  something  of  my  own,  because  Pm  going 
to  make  him  a  surprise  present  of  a  new  motor 
car.  The  one  we  are  using  now  does  not  suit 

» 
us. 

This  was  quite  true,  as  the  one  they  were 
then  using  ran  through  the  subway. 

As  summer  approached,  Carter  had  suddenly 
awakened  to  the  fact  that  he  soon  would  be  a 
pauper,  and  cut  short  the  honey-moon.  They 
returned  to  the  flat,  and  he  set  forth  to  look  for 
a  position.  Later,  while  still  looking  for  it, 
he  spoke  of  it  as  a  "job."  He  first  thought  he 
would  like  to  be  an  assistant  editor  of  a  maga 
zine.  But  he  found  editors  of  magazines  anxious 
to  employ  new  and  untried  assistants,  especially 
in  June,  were  very  few.  On  the  contrary,  they 
explained  they  were  retrenching  and  cutting 
down  expenses — they  meant  they  had  discharged 
all  office  boys  who  received  more  than  three 
dollars  a  week.  They  further  "retrenched,"  by 
taking  a  mean  advantage  of  Carter's  having 
called  upon  them  in  person,  by  handing  him 
three  or  four  of  his  stories — but  by  this  he 
saved  his  postage-stamps. 

12 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Each  day,  when  he  returned  to  the  flat,  Dolly, 
who  always  expected  each  editor  would  hastily 
dust  off  his  chair  and  offer  it  to  her  brilliant  hus 
band,  would  smile  excitedly  and  gasp,  "Well?" 
and  Carter  would  throw  the  rejected  manuscripts 
on  the  table  and  say:  "At  least,  I  have  not  re 
turned  empty-handed."  Then  they  would  dis 
cover  a  magazine  that  neither  they  nor  any  one 
else  knew  existed,  and  they  would  hurriedly 
readdress  the  manuscripts  to  that  periodical, 
and  run  to  post  them  at  the  letter-box  on  the 
corner. 

"Any  one  of  them,  if  accepted"  Carter  would 
point  out,  "might  bring  us  in  twenty-five  dol 
lars.  A  story  of  mine  once  sold  for  forty;  so 
to-night  we  can  afford  to  dine  at  a  restaurant 
where  wine  is  not  'included/  ' 

Fortunately,  they  never  lost  their  sense  of 
humor.  Otherwise  the  narrow  confines  of  the 
flat,  the  evil  smells  that  rose  from  the  baked 
streets,  the  greasy  food  of  Italian  and  Hungarian 
restaurants,  and  the  ever-haunting  need  of 
money  might  have  crushed  their  youthful  spirits. 
But  in  time  even  they  found  that  one,  still  less 
two,  cannot  exist  exclusively  on  love  and  the 
power  to  see  the  bright  side  of  things — especially 
when  there  is  no  bright  side.  They  had  come 
to  the  point  where  they  must  borrow  money 
from  their  friends,  and  that,  though  there  were 

13 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

many  who  would  have  opened  their  safes  to 
them,  they  had  agreed  was  the  one  thing  they 
would  not  do,  or  they  must  starve.  The 
alternative  was  equally  distasteful. 

Carter  had  struggled  earnestly  to  find  a  job. 
But  his  inexperience  and  the  season  of  the  year 
were  against  him.  No  newspaper  wanted  a 
dramatic  critic  when  the  only  shows  in  town 
had  been  running  three  months,  and  on  roof 
gardens;  nor  did  they  want  a  "cub"  reporter 
when  veterans  were  being  "laid  off"  by  the 
dozens.  Nor  were  his  services  desired  as  a 
private  secretary,  a  taxicab  driver,  an  agent  to 
sell  real  estate  or  automobiles  cr  stocks.  As 
no  one  gave  him  a  chance  to  prove  his  unfitness 
for  any  of  these  callings,  the  fact  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  any  of  them  did  not  greatly  matter. 
At  these  rebuffs  Dolly  was  distinctly  pleased. 
She  argued  they  proved  he  was  intended  to 
pursue  his  natural  career  as  an  author. 

That  their  friends  might  know  they  were  poor 
did  not  affect  her,  but  she  did  not  want  them  to 
think  by  his  taking  up  any  outside  "job"  that 
they  were  poor  because  as  a  literary  genius  he 
was  a  failure.  She  believed  in  his  stories.  She 
wanted  every  one  else  to  believe  in  them. 
Meanwhile,  she  assisted  him  in  so  far  as  she 
could  by  pawning  the  contents  of  five  of  the 
seven  trunks,  by  learning  to  cook  on  a  "  Kitchen- 

14 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

ette,"   and  to  laundry  her  handkerchiefs  and 
iron  them  on  the  looking-glass. 

They  faced  each  other  across  the  breakfast- 
table.  It  was  only  nine  o'clock,  but  the  sun 
beat  into  the  flat  with  the  breath  of  a  furnace, 
and  the  air  was  foul  and  humid. 

"I  tell  you,"  Carter  was  saying  fiercely,  "you 
look  ill.  You  are  ill.  You  must  go  to  the 
sea-shore.  You  must  visit  some  of  your  proud 
friends  at  East  Hampton  or  Newport.  Then 
I'll  know  you're  happy  and  I  won't  worry,  and 
I'll  find  a  job.  /  don't  mind  the  heat — and 
I'll  write  you  love  letters" — he  was  talking 
very  fast  and  not  looking  at  Dolly — "like  those 
I  used  to  write  you,  before " 

Dolly  raised  her  hand.  "Listen!"  she  said. 
"Suppose  I  leave  you.  What  will  happen? 
I'll  wake  up  in  a  cool,  beautiful  brass  bed,  won't 
I? — with  cretonne  window-curtains,  and  salt 
air  blowing  them  about,  and  a  maid  to  bring  me 
coffee.  And  instead  of  a  bathroom  like  yours, 
next  to  an  elevator  shaft  and  a  fire-escape,  I'll 
have  one  as  big  as  a  church,  and  the  whole 
blue  ocean  to  swim  in.  And  I'll  sit  on  the  rocks 
in  the  sunshine  and  watch  the  waves  and  the 
yachts " 

"And  grow  well  again!"  cried  Carter.  "But 
you'll  write  to  me,"  he  added  wistfully,  "every 
day,  won't  you?" 

15 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

In  her  wrath,  Dolly  rose,  and  from  across  the 
table  confronted  him. 

"And  what  will  I  be  doing  on  those  rocks?" 
she  cried.  "You  know  what  I'll  be  doing! 
I'll  be  sobbing,  and  sobbing,  and  calling  out  to 
the  waves:  'Why  did  he  send  me  away?  Why 
doesn't  he  want  me?  Because  he  doesn't  love 
me.  That's  why!  He  doesn't  love  me!'  And 
you  DON'T!"  cried  Dolly.  "You  DON'T!" 

It  took  him  all  of  three  minutes  to  persuade 
her  she  was  mistaken. 

"Very  well,  then,"  sobbed  Dolly,  "that's 
settled.  And  there'll  be  no  more  talk  of  sending 
me  away!" 

"There  will  not!"  said  Champneys  hastily. 
"We  will  now,"  he  announced,  "go  into  com 
mittee  of  the  whole  and  decide  how  we  are  to 
face  financial  failure.  Our  assets  consist  of 
two  stories,  accepted,  but  not  paid  for,  and 
fifteen  stories  not  accepted.  In  cash  "  —he  spread 
upon  the  table  a  meagre  collection  of  soiled  bills 
and  coins — "we  have  twenty-seven  dollars  and 
fourteen  cents.  That  is  every  penny  we  possess 
in  the  world." 

Dolly  regarded  him  fixedly  and  shook  her 
head. 

"Is  it  wicked,"  she  asked,  "to  love  you  so?'' 

"Haven't  you  been  listening  to  me?"  de 
manded  Carter. 

16 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Again  Dolly  shook  her  head. 

"I  was  watching  the  way  you  talk.  When 
your  lips  move  fast  they  do  such  charming 
things." 

"Do  you  know,"  roared  Carter,  "that  we 
haven't  a  penny  in  the  world,  that  we  have 
nothing  in  this  flat  to  eat?" 

"I  still  have  five  hat:,"  said  Dolly. 

"We  can't  eat  hat  ;,     protested  Champneys. 

"We  can  sell  hats !"  returned  Dolly.  "They 
cost  eighty  dollars  apiece!" 

"When  you  need  money,"  explained  Carter, 
"  I  find  it's  just  as  hard  to  sell  a  hat  as  to  eat  it." 

"Twenty-seven  dollars  and  fourteen  cents," 
repeated  Dolly.  She  exclaimed  remorsefully: 
"And  you  started  with  three  thousand!  What 
did  I  do  with  it?" 

"We  both  had  the  time  of  our  lives  with  it !" 
said  Carter  stoutly.  "And  that's  all  there  is  to 
that.  Post-mortems,"  he  pointed  out,  "are 
useful  only  as  guides  to  the  future,  and  as  our 
future  will  never  hold  a  second  three  thousand 
dollars,  we  needn't  worry  about  how  we  spent 
the  first  one.  No!  What  we  must  consider 
now  is  how  we  can  grow  rich  quick,  and  the 
quicker  and  richer,  the  better.  Pawning  our 
clothes,  or  what's  left  of  them,  is  bad  economics. 
There's  no  use  considering  how  to  live  from  meal 
to  meal.  We  must  evolve  something  big, 

17 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

picturesque,  that  will  bring  a  fortune.  You 
have  imagination;  I'm  supposed  to  have  imagi 
nation;  we  must  think  of  a  plan  to  get  money, 
much  money.  I  do  not  insist  on  our  plan  being 
dignified,  or  even  outwardly  respectable;  so 
long  as  it  keeps  you  alive,  it  may  be  as  desperate 
as " 

"I  see!"  cried  Dolly;  "like  sending  mother 
Black  Hand  letters!" 

"Blackmail — "  began  that  lady's  son-in-law 
doubtfully. 

"Or!"  cried  Dolly,  "we  might  kidnap  Mr. 
Carnegie  when  he's  walking  in  the  park  alone, 
and  hold  him  for  ransom.  Or" — she  rushed  on 
— "we  might  forge  a  codicil  to  father's  will, 
and  make  it  say  if  mother  shouldn't  like  the 
man  I  want  to  marry,  all  of  father's  fortune 
must  go  to  my  husband!" 

"Forgery,"  exclaimed  Champneys,  "is  going 
further  than  I ' 

"And  another  plan,"  interrupted  Dolly,  "that 
I  have  always  had  in  mind,  is  to  issue  a  cheaper 
edition  of  your  book,  'The  Dead  Heat.'  The 
reason  the  first  edition  of  'The  Dead  Heat* 
didn't  sell " 

"Don't  tell  ME  why  it  didn't  sell,"said  Champ 
neys.  "I  wrote  it!" 

"That  book,"  declared  Dolly  loyally,  "was 
never  properly  advertised.  No  one  knew  abcrxt 
it,  so  no  one  bought  it !" 

18 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"Eleven  people  bought  it!"  corrected  the 
author. 

"We  will  put  it  in  a  paper  cover  and  sell  it 
for  fifty  cents,"  cried  Dolly.  "It's  the  best 
detective  story  I  ever  read,  and  people  have 
got  to  know  it  is  the  best.  So  we'll  advertise 
it  like  a  breakfast  food." 

"The  idea,"  interrupted  Champneys,  "is  to 
make  money,  not  throw  it  away.  Besides,  we 
haven't  any  to  throw  away." 

Dolly  sighed  bitterly. 

"If  only,"  she  exclaimed,  "we  had  that  three 
thousand  dollars  back  again !  I'd  save  so  care 
fully.  It  was  all  my  fault.  The  races  took  it, 
but  it  was  /  took  you  to  the  races." 

"No  one  ever  had  to  drag  me  to  the  races," 
said  Carter.  "  It  was  the  way  we  went  that  was 
extravagant.  Automobiles  by  the  hour  standing 
idle,  and  a  box  each  day,  and ' 

"And  always  backing  Dromedary,"  sug 
gested  Dolly. 

Carter  was  touched  on  a  sensitive  spot. 

"That  horse,"  he  protested  loudly,  "is  a 
mighty  good  horse.  Some  day " 

"That's  what  you  always  said,"  remarked 
Dolly,  "but  he  never  seems  to  have  his  day." 

"It's  strange,"  said  Champneys  consciously. 
"I  dreamed  of  Dromedary  only  last  night. 
Same  dream  over  and  over  again." 

Hastily  he  changed  the  subject. 

19 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"  For  some  reason  I  don't  sleep  well.  I  don't 
know  why." 

Dolly  looked  at  him  with  all  the  love  in  her 
eyes  of  a  mother  over  her  ailing  infant. 

"It's  worrying  over  me,  and  the  heat,"  she 
said.  "And  the  garage  next  door,  and  the  sky 
scraper  going  up  across  the  street,  might  have 
something  to  do  with  it.  And  YOU,"  she 
mocked  tenderly,  "wanted  to  send  me  to  the 
sea-shore." 

Carter  was  frowning.  As  though  about  to 
speak,  he  opened  his  lips,  and  then  laughed 
embarrassedly. 

"Out  with  it,"  said  Dolly,  with  an  encouraging 
smile.  "Did  he  win?" 

Seeing  she  had  read  what  was  in  his  mind, 
Carter  leaned  forward  eagerly.  The  ruling 
passion  and  a  touch  of  superstition  held  him  in 
their  grip. 

"He  'win*  each  time,"  he  whispered.  "I  saw 
it  as  plain  as  I  see  you.  Each  time  he  came  up 
with  a  rush  just  at  the  same  place,  just  as  they 
entered  the  stretch,  and  each  time  he  won!" 
He  slapped  his  hand  disdainfully  upon  the  dirty 
bills  before  him.  "If  I  had  a  hundred  dollars !" 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Carter 
opened  it  to  the  elevator  boy  with  the  morning 
mail.  The  letters,  save  one,  Carter  dropped 
upon  the  table.  That  one,  with  clumsy  fingers^ 

20 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

he  tore  open.  He  exclaimed  breathlessly :  "It's 
from  Plympton's  Magazine!  Maybe — I've  sold 
a  story!"  He  gave  a  cry  almost  of  alarm. 
His  voice  was  as  solemn  as  though  the  letter 
had  announced  a  death. 

"Dolly,"  he  whispered,  "it's  a  check — a  check 
for  a  hundred  dollars!" 

Guiltily,  the  two  young  people  looked  at  each 
other. 

"We've  got  to!"  breathed  Dolly.  "Got  to! 
If  we  let  TWO  signs  like  that  pass,  we'd  be 
flying  iri  the  face  of  Providence." 

With  her  hands  gripping  the  arms  of  her  chair, 
she  leaned  forward,  her  eyes  staring  into  space, 
her  lips  moving. 

"Come  on,  you  Dromedary!"  she  whispered. 

They  changed  the  check  into  five  and  ten 
dollar  bills,  and,  as  Carter  was  far  too  excited 
to  work,  made  an  absurdly  early  start  for  the 
race-track. 

"We  might  as  well  get  all  the  fresh  air  we 
can,"  said  Dolly.  "That's  all  we  will  get!" 

From  their  reserve  fund  of  twenty-seven 
dollars  which  each  had  solemnly  agreed  with  the 
other  would  not  be  risked  on  race-horses,  Dolly 
subtracted  a  two-dollar  bill.  This  she  stuck 
conspicuously  across  the  face  of  the  clock  on  the 
mantel. 

"Why?"  asked  Carter. 

21 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

small  wagers,  he  had,  in  the  ring,  bet  ready 
money.  Moreover,  he  believed  in  the  ring  he 
obtained  more  favorable  odds,  and,  when  he 
won,  it  pleased  him,  instead  of  waiting  until 
settling  day  for  a  check,  to  stand  in  a  line  and 
feel  the  real  money  thrust  into  his  hand.  So, 
when  the  fourth  race  started  he  rose  and  raised 
his  hat. 

"The  time  has  come,"  he  said. 

Without  looking  at  him,  Dolly  nodded.  She 
was  far  too  tremulous  to  speak. 

For  several  weeks  Dromedary  had  not  been 
placed,  and  Carter  hoped  for  odds  of  at  least 
ten  to  one.  But,  when  he  pushed  his  way  into 
the  arena,  he  found  so  little  was  thought  of  his 
choice  that  as  high  as  twenty  to  one  was  being 
offered,  and  with  few  takers.  The  fact  shat 
tered  his  confidence.  Here  were  two  hundred 
book-makers,  trained  to  their  calling,  anxious 
at  absurd  odds  to  back  their  opinion  that  the 
horse  he  liked  could  not  win.  In  the  face  of 
such  unanimous  contempt,  his  dream  became 
fantastic,  fatuous.  He  decided  he  would  risk 
only  half  of  his  fortune.  Then,  should  the 
horse  win,  he  still  would  be  passing  rich,  and 
should  he  lose,  he  would,  at  least,  have  all  of 
fifty  dollars. 

With  a  book-maker  he  wagered  that  sum,  and 
then,  in  unhappy  indecision,  stood,  in  one  hand 

24 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

clutching  his  ticket  that  called  for  a  potential 
thousand  and  fifty  dollars,  and  in  the  other  an 
actual  fifty.  It  was  not  a  place  for  meditation. 
From  every  side  men,  more  or  less  sane,  swept 
upon  him,  jostled  him,  and  stamped  upon  him, 
and  still,  struggling  for  a  foothold,  he  swayed, 
hesitating.  Then  he  became  conscious  that  the 
ring  was  nearly  empty,  that  only  a  few  shrieking 
individuals  still  ran  down  the  line.  The  horses 
were  going  to  the  post.  He  must  decide  quickly. 
In  front  of  him  the  book-maker  cleaned  his 
board,  and,  as  a  final  appeal,  opposite  the 
names  of  three  horses  chalked  thirty  to  one. 
Dromedary  was  among  them.  Such  odds  could 
not  be  resisted.  Carter  shoved  his  fifty  at  the 
man,  and  to  that  sum  added  the  twenty  dol 
lars  still  in  his  pocket.  They  were  the  last 
dollars  he  owned  in  the  world.  And  though 
he  knew  they  were  his  last,  he  was  fearful  lest 
the  book-maker  would  refuse  them.  But,  me 
chanically,  the  man  passed  them  over  his 
shoulder. 

"And  twenty-one  hundred  to  seventy,"  he 
chanted. 

When  Carter  took  his  seat  beside  Dolly,  he 
was  quite  cold.  Still,  Dolly  did  not  speak. 
Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes  she  questioned  him. 

"  I  got  fifty  at  twenty  to  one,"  replied  Carter, 
"and  seventy  at  thirty!" 

25 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 


he  had,  in  the  ring,  bet  ready 
Moreover,  he  believed  in  the  ring  he 
<iinaimtl  none  favorable  odds,  and,  when  he 

it  pleased  nun*  instead  01  ^PFaitmsr  until 
for  a  check,  to  stand  in  a  fine  and 
fed  the  real  money  thrust  into  his  hand.    So, 
the  fourth  race  started  he  rose  and  raised 


he  said. 

Without  looking  at  him,  DoHy  nodded.    She 
'was  lar  too  tremulous  to  sp^aP^- 

For  several  weeks  Dromedary  had  not  been 
placed,  and  Carter  hoped  for  odds  of  at  least 
to  one.  But,  when  he  poshed  his  way  into 
he  found  so  Etde  was  thought  of  his 
that  as  high  as  twenty  to  one  was  being 
offered,  and  with  few  takers.  The  fact  shat 
tered  his  confidence.  Here  were  two  hundred 
trained  to  their  calling, 


at  absurd  odds  to  back  their  opinion  that  the 
hone  he  Eked  could  not  win.  In  the  face  of 

fantastic,  fatuous.  He  decided  he  would  risk 
only  half  of  his  fortune.  Then,  should  the 
horse  win,  he  stfll  would  be  passing  rich,  and 
should  he  lose,  he  would,  at  least,  have  all  of 
irrtv  dollars. 

With  a  book-maker  he  iiagpffd  that  sum,  and 
thai,  in  unhappy  mdrrisinn,  stood,  in  one  hand 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

clutching  his  ticket  that  called  for  a  potential 
thousand  and  fifty  dollars,  and  in  the  other  an. 
actual  fifty.  It  was  not  a  place  for  meditation*. 
From  every  side  men,  more  or  less  sane,  swept 
upon  him,  jostled  him,  and  stamped  upon  him, 
and  still,  struggling  for  a  foothold,  he  swayed, 
hesitating.  Then  he  became  conscious  that  the 
ring  was  nearly  empty,  that  only  a  few  shrieking 
individuals  still  ran  down  the  line.  The  horses 
were  going  to  the  post.  He  must  decide  quickly. 
In  front  of  him  the  book-maker  cleaned  his 
board,  and,  as  a  final  appeal,  opposite  the 
names  of  three  horses  chalked  thirty  to  one. 
Dromedary  was  among  them.  Such  odds  could 
not  be  resisted.  Carter  shoved  his  fifty  at  the 
man,  and  to  that  sum  added  the  twenty  dol 
lars  still  in  his  pocket.  They  were  the  last 
dollars  he  owned  in  the  world.  And  though 
he  knew  they  were  his  last,  he  was  fearful  lest 
the  book-maker  would  refuse  them.  But,  me 
chanically,  the  man  passed  them  over  his 
shoulder. 

"And  twenty-one  hundred  to  seventy,91  he 
chanted. 

When  Carter  took  his  seat  beside  Dofiy,  he 
was  quite  cold.  Still,  Dolly  did  not  speak. 
Out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes  she  questioned  him. 

"  I  got  fifty  at  twenty  to  one,"  replied  Carter, 
"and  seventy  at  thirty!" 

25 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

In  alarm,  Dolly  turned  upon  him. 

"SEVENTY!"  she  gasped. 

Carter  nodded.  "All  we  have,"  he  said. 
"We  have  sixty  cents  left,  to  start  life  over 
again ! " 

As  though  to  encourage  him,  Dolly  placed  her 
finger  on  her  race-card. 

"His  colors,"  she  said,  "are  'green  cap,  green 
jacket,  green  and  white  hoops." 

Through  a  maze  of  heat,  a  half-mile  distant, 
at  the  starting-gate,  little  spots  of  color 
moved  in  impatient  circles.  The  big,  good- 
natured  crowd  had  grown  silent,  so  silent  that 
from  the  high,  sun-warmed  grass  in  the  infield 
one  could  hear  the  lazy  chirp  of  the  crickets. 
As  though  repeating  a  prayer,  or  an  incantation, 
Dolly's  lips  were  moving  quickly. 

"Green  cap,"  she  whispered,  "green  jacket, 
green  and  white  hoops!" 

With  a  sharp  sigh  the  crowd  broke  the  silence. 
"They're  off!"  it  cried,  and  leaned  forward 
expectant. 

The  horses  came  so  fast.  To  Carter  their 
conduct  seemed  outrageous.  It  was  incredible 
that  in  so  short  a  time,  at  a  pace  so  reckless, 
they  would  decide  a  question  of  such  moment. 
They  came  bunched  together,  shifting  and 
changing,  with,  through  the  dust,  flashes  of 
blue  and  gold  and  scarlet.  A  jacket  of  yellow 

26 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

shot  out  of  the  dust  and  showed  in  front;  a 
jacket  of  crimson  followed.  So  they  were  at 
the  half;  so  they  were  at  the  three-quarters. 

The  good-natured  crowd  began  to  sway,  to 
grumble  and  murmur,  then  to  shout  in  sharp 
staccato. 

"Can  you  see  him?"  begged  Dolly. 

"No,"  said  Carter.  "You  dont  see  him  until 
they  reach  the  stretch." 

One  could  hear  their  hoofs,  could  see  the 
crimson  jockey  draw  his  whip.  At  the  sight, 
for  he  rode  the  favorite,  the  crowd  gave  a  great 
gasp  of  concern. 

"Oh,  you  Gold  Heels!"  it  implored. 

Under  the  whip,  Gold  Heels  drew  even  with 
the  yellow  jacket;  stride  by  stride,  they  fought 
it  out  alone. 

"Gold  Heels!"   cried  the  crowd. 

Behind  them,  in  a  curtain  of  dust,  pounded 
the  field.  It  charged  in  a  flying  wedge,  like  a 
troop  of  cavalry.  Dolly,  searching  for  a  green 
jacket,  saw,  instead,  a  rainbow  wave  of  color 
that,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  sprang  toward  her  in 
great  leaps,  swallowing  the  track. 

"Gold  Heels!"  yelled  the  crowd. 

The  field  swept  into  the  stretch.  Without 
moving  his  eyes,  Carter  caught  Dolly  by  the 
wrist  and  pointed.  As  though  giving  a  signal, 
he  shot  his  free  hand  into  the  air. 

27 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"Now!"  he  shouted. 

From  the  curtain  of  dust,  as  lightning  strikes 
through  a  cloud,  darted  a  great,  raw-boned,  ugly 
chestnut.  Like  the  Empire  Express,  he  came 
rocking,  thundering,  spurning  the  ground.  At 
his  coming,  Gold  Heels,  to  the  eyes  of  the  crowd, 
seemed  to  falter,  to  slacken,  to  stand  still.  The 
crowd  gave  a  great  cry  of  amazement,  a  yell  of 
disgust.  The  chestnut  drew  even  with  Gold 
Heels,  passed  him,  and  swept  under  the  wire. 
Clinging  to  his  neck  was  a  little  jockey  in  a 
green  cap,  green  jacket,  and  hoops  of  green 
and  white. 

Dolly's  hand  was  at  her  side,  clutching  the 
bench.  Carter's  hand  still  clasped  it.  Neither 
spoke  or  looked  at  the  other.  For  an  instant, 
while  the  crowd,  no  longer  so  good-natured, 
mocked  and  jeered  at  itself,  the  two  young 
people  sat  quite  still,  staring  at  the  green  field, 
at  the  white  clouds  rolling  from  the  ocean. 
Dolly  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Let's  go!"  she  gasped.  "Let's  thank  him 
first,  and  then — take  me  home!" 

They  found  Dromedary  in  the  paddock,  and 
thanked  him,  and  Carter  left  Dolly  with  him, 
while  he  ran  to  collect  his  winnings.  When  he 
returned,  he  showed  her  a  sheaf  of  yellow  bills, 
and  as  they  ran  down  the  covered  board  walk 
to  the  gate,  they  skipped  and  danced. 

28 


-o 

c 


J3 

4-> 
O 


c 
bfl 


W) 
G 


^c 

bfi 
O 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Dolly  turned  toward  the  train  drawn  up  at 
the  entrance. 

"Not  with  me!"  shouted  Carter.  "We're 
going  home  in  the  reddest,  most  expensive, 
fastest  automobile  I  can  hire!" 

In  the  "hack"  line  of  motor-cars  was  one  that 
answered  those  requirements,  and  they  fell  into 
it  as  though  it  were  their  own. 

"To  the  Night  and  Day  Bank!"  commanded 
Carter. 

With  the  genial  democracy  of  the  race-track, 
the  chauffeur  lifted  his  head  to  grin  appre 
ciatively. 

"That  listens  good  to  me!"  he  said. 

"I  like  him!"  whispered  Dolly.  "Let's  buy 
him  and  the  car." 

On  the  way  home,  they  bought  many  cars; 
every  car  they  saw,  that  they  liked,  they  bought. 
They  bought,  also,  several  houses,  and  a  yacht 
that  they  saw  from  the  ferry-boat.  And  as 
soon  as  they  had  deposited  the  most  of  their 
money  in  the  bank,  they  went  to  a  pawnshop 
in  Sixth  Avenue  and  bought  back  many  pos 
sessions  that  they  had  feared  they  never  would 
see  again. 

When  they  entered  the  flat,  the  thing  they  first 
beheld  was  Dolly's  two-dollar  bill. 

"What,"  demanded  Carter,  with  repugnance, 
"is  that  strange  piece  of  paper?" 

29 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Dolly  examined  it  carefully. 
"I  think  it  is  a  kind  of  money,"  she  said, 
"used  by  the  lower  classes." 

They  dined  on  the  roof  at  Delmonico's.  Dolly 
wore  the  largest  of  the  five  hats  still  unsold,  and 
Carter  selected  the  dishes  entirely  according  to 
which  was  the  most  expensive.  Every  now  and 
again  they  would  look  anxiously  down  across  the 
street  at  the  bank  that  held  their  money. 
They  were  nervous  lest  it  should  take  fire. 

"We  can  be  extravagant  to-night,"  said  Dolly, 
"because  we  owe  it  to  Dromedary  to  celebrate. 
But  from  to-night  on  we  must  save.  We've  had 
an  awful  lesson.  What  happened  to  us  last 
month  must  never  happen  again.  We  were 
down  to  a  two-dollar  bill.  Now  we  have 
twenty-five  hundred  across  the  street,  and  you 
have  several  hundreds  in  your  pocket.  On  that 
we  can  live  easily  for  a  year.  Meanwhile,  you 
can  write  'the*  great  American  novel  without 
having  to  worry  about  money,  or  to  look  for  a 
'steady  job/  And  then  your  book  will  come  out, ! 
and  you  will  be  famous,  and  rich,  and— 

"Passing  on  from  that,"  interrupted  Carter, 
"the  thing  of  first  importance  is  to  get  you  out 
of  that  hot,  beastly  flat.  I  propose  we  start 
to-morrow  for  Cape  Cod.  I  know  a  lot  of 
fishing  villages  there  where  we  could  board  and 

30 


lodge  for  twelve  dollars  a  week,  and  row  and 
play  tennis  and  live  in  our  bathing  suits." 

Dolly  assented  with  enthusiasm,  and  during 
the  courses  of  the  dinner  they  happily  discussed 
Cape  Cod  from  Pocasset  to  Yarmouth,  and 
from  Sandwich  to  Provincetown.  So  eager 
were  they  to  escape,  that  Carter  telephoned  the 
hallman  at  his  club  to  secure  a  cabin  for  the 
next  afternoon  on  the  Fall  River  boat. 

As  they  sat  over  their  coffee  in  the  cool  breeze, 
with,  in  the  air,  the  scent  of  flowers  and  the  swing 
of  music,  and  with,  at  their  feet,  the  lights  of  the 
great  city,  the  world  seemed  very  bright. 

"It  has  been  a  great  day,"  sighed  Carter. 
"And  if  I  hadn't  had  nervous  prostration  I 
would  have  enjoyed  it.  That  race-course  is 
always  cool,  and  there  were  some  fine  finishes. 
I  noticed  two  horses  that  would  bear  watching, 
Her  Highness  and  Glowworm.  If  we  weren't 
leaving  to-morrow,  Pd  be  inclined " 

Dolly  regarded  him  with  eyes  of  horror. 

"Champneys  Carter!"  she  exclaimed.  As 
she  said  it,  it  sounded  like  "Great  Jehosha- 
phat!" 

Carter  protested  indignantly.  "I  only  said," 
he  explained,  "if  I  were  following  the  races,  I'd 
watch  those  horses.  Don't  worry!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "  I  know  when  to  stop." 

The  next  morning  they  took  breakfast  on  the 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

tiny  terrace  of  a  restaurant  overlooking  Bryant 
Park,  where,  during  the  first  days  of  their  honey 
moon,  they  had  always  breakfasted.  For  senti 
mental  reasons  they  now  revisited  it.  But 
Dolly  was  eager  to  return  at  once  to  the  flat  and 
pack,  and  Carter  seemed  distrait.  He  explained 
that  he  had  had  a  bad  night. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  sympathized  Dolly,  "but  to 
night  you  will  have  a  fine  sleep  going  up  the 
Sound.  Any  more  nightmares?"  she  asked. 

"Nightmares!"  exploded  Carter  fiercely. 
"Nightmares  they  certainly  were!  I  dreamt 
two  of  the  nightmares  won !  I  saw  them,  all 
night,  just  as  I  saw  Dromedary — Her  Highness 
and  Glowworm,  winning,  winning,  winning!" 

*  Those  were  the  horses  you  spoke  about  last 
night,"  said  Dolly  severely.  "After  so  wonder 
ful  a  day,  of  course  you  dreamt  of  racing,  and 
those  two  horses  were  in  your  mind.  That's 
the  explanation." 

They  returned  to  the  flat  and  began,  indus 
triously,  to  pack.  About  twelve  o'clock  Carter, 
coming  suddenly  into  the  bedroom  where  Dolly 
was  alone,  found  her  reading  the  Morning  Tele 
graph.  It  was  open  at  the  racing  page  of  "past 
performances." 

She  dropped  the  paper  guiltily.  Carter  kicked 
a  hat-box  out  of  his  way  and  sat  down  on  a 
trunk. 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"I  don't  see,"  he  began,  "why  we  can't  wait 
one  more  day.  We'd  be  just  as  near  the  ocean 
at  Sheepshead  Bay  race-track  as  on  a  Fall  River 
boat,  and " 

He  halted  and  frowned  unhappily.  "We 
needn't  bet  more  than  ten  dollars,"  he  begged. 

"Of  course,"  declared  Dolly,  "if  they  should 
win,  you'll  always  blame  me/" 

Carter's  eyes  shone  hopefully. 

"And,"  continued  Dolly,  "I  can't  bear  to 
have  you  blame  me.  So " 

"Get  your  hat!"  shouted  Carter,  "or  we'll 
miss  the  first  race." 

Carter  telephoned  for  a  cab,  and  as  they  were 
entering  it  said  guiltily:  "I've  got  to  stop  at 
the  bank." 

"You  have  not!"  announced  Dolly.  "That 
money  is  to  keep  us  alive  while  you  write  the 
great  American  novel.  I'm  glad  to  spend  an 
other  day  at  the  races,  and  I'm  willing  to  back 
your  dreams  as  far  as  ten  dollars,  but  for  no 
more." 

"If  my  dreams  come  true,"  warned  Carter, 
"you'll  be  awfully  sorry." 

"Not  I,"  said  Dolly.  "I'll  merely  send  you 
to  bed,  and  you  can  go  on  dreaming." 

When  Her  Highness  romped  home,  an  easy 
winner,  the  look  Dolly  turned  upon  her  husband 
was  one  both  of  fear  and  dismay. 

33 


"I  don't  like  it!"  she  gasped.  "It's — it's 
uncanny.  It  gives  me  a  creepy  feeling.  It 
makes  you  seem  sort  of  supernatural.  And 
oh,"  she  cried,  "  if  only  I  had  let  you  bet  all  you 
had  with  you  ! " 

"I  did,"  stammered  Carter,  in  extreme  agita 
tion.  "I  bet  four  hundred.  I  got  five  to  one, 
Dolly,"  he  gasped,  in  awe;  "we've  won  two 
thousand  dollars." 

Dolly  exclaimed  rapturously: 

"We'll  put  it  all  in  bank,"  she  cried. 

"We'll  put  it  all  on  Glowworm!"  said  her 
husband. 

"Champ !"  begged  Dolly.  "Don't  push  your 
luck.  Stop  while 

Carter  shook  his  head. 

"It's  NOT  luck!"  he  growled.  "It's  a  gift, 
it's  second  sight,  it's  prophecy.  I've  been  a 
full-fledged  clairvoyant  all  my  life,  and  didn't 
know  it.  Anyway,  I'm  a  sport,  and  after  two 
of  my  dreams  breaking  right,  I've  got  to  back 
the  third  one!" 

Glowworm  was  at  ten  to  one,  and  at  those 
odds  the  book-makers  to  whom  he  first  applied 
did  not  care  to  take  so  large  a  sum  as  he  offered. 
Carter  found  a  book-maker  named  "Sol"  Bur- 
bank  who,  at  those  odds,  accepted  his  two 
thousand. 

When  Carter  returned  to  collect  his  twenty- 

34 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

two  thousand,  there  was  some  little  delay  while 
Burbank  borrowed  a  portion  of  it.  He  looked 
at  Carter  curiously  and  none  too  genially. 

"Wasn't  it  you,"  he  asked,  "that  had  that 
thirty-to-one  shot  yesterday  on  Dromedary?" 

Carter  nodded  somewhat  guiltily.  A  man 
in  the  crowd  volunteered:  "And  he  had  Her 
Highness  in  the  second,  too,  for  four  hundred." 

"  You've  made  a  good  day,"  said  Burbank. 
"Give  me  a  chance  to  get  my  money  back  to 
morrow." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Carter.  "I'm  leaving  New 
York  to-morrow." 

The  same  scarlet  car  bore  them  back  trium 
phant  to  the  bank. 

" Twenty-two  thousand  dollars?"  gasped  Car 
ter,  "in  cash!  How  in  the  name  of  all  that's 
honest  can  we  celebrate  winning  twenty-two 
thousand  dollars?  We  can't  eat  more  than  one 
dinner;  we  can't  drink  more  than  two  quarts 
of  champagne — not  without  serious  results." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we  can  do!"  cried  Dolly 
excitedly.  "We  can  sail  to-morrow  on  the 
Campania!" 

"Hurrah!"  shouted  Carter.  "We'll  have  a 
second  honey-moon.  We'll  'shoot  up'  London 
and  Paris.  We'll  tear  slices  out  of  the  map  of 
Europe.  You'll  ride  in  one  motor-car,  I'll  ride 
in  another,  we'll  have  a  maid  and  a  valet  in  a 

35 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

third,  and  we'll  race  each  other  all  the  way  to 
Monte  Carlo.  And,  there,  I'll  dream  of  the  win 
ning  numbers,  and  we'll  break  the  bank.  When 
does  the  Campania  sail?" 

"At  noon,"  said  Dolly. 

"At  eight  we  will  be  on  board,"  said  Carter. 

But  that  night  in  his  dreams  he  saw  King 
Pepper,  Confederate,  and  Red  Wing  each  win 
a  race.  And  in  the  morning  neither  the  engines 
of  the  Campania  nor  the  entreaties  of  Dolly 
could  keep  him  from  the  race-track. 

"I.  want  only  six  thousand,"  he  protested. 
"You  can  do  what  you  like  with  the  rest,  but 
I  am  going  to  bet  six  thousand  on  the  first  one 
of  those  three  to  start.  If  he  loses,  I  give  you 
my  word  I'll  not  bet  another  cent,  and  we'll 
sail  on  Saturday.  If  he  wins  out,  I'll  put  all 
I  make  on  the  two  others." 

"Can't  you  see,"  begged  Dolly,  "that  your 
dreams  are  just  a  rehash  of  what  you  think 
during  the  day?  You  have  been  playing  in 
wonderful  luck,  that's  all.  Each  of  those  horses 
is  likely  to  win  his  race.  When  he  does  you 
will  have  more  faith  than  ever  in  your  silly 
dreams " 

"My  silly  dreams,"  said  Carter  grinning, 
"are  carrying  you  to  Europe,  first  class,  by  the 
next  steamer." 

They  had  been  talking  while  on  their  way  to 

36 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

the  bank.  When  Dolly  saw  she  could  not  alter 
his  purpose,  she  made  him  place  the  nineteen 
thousand  that  remained,  after  he  had  taken  out 
the  six  thousand,  in  her  name.  She  then  drew 
out  the  entire  amount. 

"  You  told  me,"  said  Dolly,  smiling  anxiously, 
"  I  could  do  what  I  liked  with  it.  Maybe  I  have 
dreams  also.  Maybe  I  mean  to  back  them." 

She  drove  away,  mysteriously  refusing  to  tell 
him  what  she  intended  to  do.  When  they  met  at 
luncheon,  she  was  still  much  excited,  still  bris 
tling  with  a  concealed  secret. 

"Did  you  back  your  dream?"  asked  Carter. 

Dolly  nodded  happily. 

"And  when  am  I  to  know?" 

"  You  will  read  of  it,"  said  Dolly,  "to-morrow, 
in  the  morning  papers.  It's  all  quite  correct. 
My  lawyers  arranged  it." 

"Lawyers!"  gasped  her  husband.  :<  You're 
not  arranging  to  lock  me  in  a  private  mad 
house,  are  you?" 

"No,"  laughed  Dolly;  "but  when  I  told  them 
how  I  intended  to  invest  the  money  they  came 
near  putting  me  there." 

"Didn't  they  want  to  know  how  you  suddenly 
got  so  rich?"  asked  Carter. 

"They  did.  I  told  them  it  came  from  my 
husband's  'books' !  It  was  a  very  'near'  false 
hood." 

37 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"  It  was  worse,"  said  Carter.  "  It  was  a  very 
poor  pun." 

As  in  their  honey-moon  days  they  drove 
proudly  to  the  track,  and  when  Carter  had  placed 
Dolly  in  a  box  large  enough  for  twenty,  he 
pushed  his  way  into  the  crowd  around  the 
stand  of  "Sol"  Burbank.  That  veteran  of  the 
turf  welcomed  him  gladly. 

"Coming  to  give  me  my  money  back?"  he 
called. 

"No,  to  take  some  away,"  said  Carter,  hand 
ing  him  his  six  thousand. 

Without  apparently  looking  at  it,  Burbank 
passed  it  to  his  cashier.  "King  Pepper,  twelve 
to  six  thousand,"  he  called. 

When  King  Pepper  won,  and  Carter  moved 
around  the  ring  with  eighteen  thousand  dollars 
in  thousand  and  five  hundred  dollar  bills  in 
his  fist,  he  found  himself  beset  by  a  crowd  of 
curious,  eager  "pikers."  They  both  impeded 
his  operations  and  acted  as  a  body-guard. 
Confederate  was  an  almost  prohibitive  favorite 
at  one  to  three,  and  in  placing  eighteen  thousand 
that  he  might  win  six,  Carter  found  little  diffi 
culty.  When  Confederate  won,  and  he  started 
with  his  twenty-four  thousand  to  back  Red 
Wing,  the  crowd  now  engulfed  him.  Men  and 
boys  who  when  they  wagered  five  and  ten 
dollars  were  risking  their  all,  found  in  the  sight 
of  a  young  man  offering  bets  in  hundreds  and 

38 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

thousands  a  thrilling  and  fascinating  spectacle. 
To  learn  what  horse  he  was  playing  and  at  what 
odds,  racing  touts  and  runners  for  other  book 
makers  and  individual  speculators  leaped  into 
the  mob  that  surrounded  him,  and  then,  squirm 
ing  their  way  out,  ran  shrieking  down  the  line. 
In  ten  minutes,  through  the  bets  of  Carter  and 
those  that  backed  his  luck,  the  odds  against  Red 
Wing  were  forced  down  from  fifteen  to  one  to 
even  money.  His  approach  was  hailed  by  the 
book-makers  either  with  jeers  or  with  shouts  of 
welcome.  Those  who  had  lost  demanded  a 
chance  to  regain  their  money.  Those  with 
whom  he  had  not  bet,  found  in  that  fact  conso 
lation,  and  chaffed  the  losers.  Some  curtly 
refused  even  the  smallest  part  of  his  money. 
"Not  with  me!"  they  laughed.  From  stand 
to  stand  the  layers  of  odds  taunted  him,  or 
each  other.  "Don't  touch  it,  it's  tainted!" 
they  shouted.  "Look  out,  Joe,  he's  the  Jonah 
man!"  Or,  "Come  at  me  again!"  they  called. 
"And,  once  more!"  they  challenged  as  they 
reached  for  a  thousand-dollar  bill. 

And,  when  in  time,  each  shook  his  head  and 
grumbled:  " That's  all  I  want,"  or  looked  the 
other  way,  the  mob  around  Carter  jeered. 
"He's  fought  'em  to  a  stand-still !"  they  shouted 
jubilantly.  In  their  eyes  a  man  who  alone  was 
able  and  willing  to  wipe  the  name  of  a  horse  off 
the  blackboards  was  a  hero. 

39 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

To  the  horror  of  Dolly,  instead  of  watching  the 
horses  parade  past,  the  crowd  gathered  in  front 
of  her  box  and  pointed  and  stared  at  her. 
From  the  club-house  her  men  friends  and 
acquaintances  invaded  it. 

"Has  Carter  gone  mad?"  they  demanded. 
"He's  dealing  out  thousand-dollar  bills  like 
cigarettes.  He's  turned  the  ring  into  a  wheat 
pit!" 

When  he  reached  the  box  a  sun-burned  man 
in  a  sombrero  blocked  his  way. 

"I'm  the  owner  of  Red  Wing,"  he  explained, 
"bred  him  and  trained  him  myself.  I  know 
he'll  be  lucky  if  he  gets  the  place.  You're 
backing  him  in  thousands  to  win.  What  do 
you  know  about  him?" 

"Know  he  will  win,"  said  Carter. 

The  veteran  commissioner  of  the  club  stand 
buttonholed  him.  "Mr.  Carter,"  he  begged, 
"why  don't  you  bet  through  me?  I'll  give 
you  as  good  odds  as  they  will  in  that  ring.  You 
don't  want  your  clothes  torn  off  you  and  your 
money  taken  from  you." 

"They  haven't  taken  such  a  lot  of  it  yet," 
said  Carter. 

When  Red  Wing  won,  the  crowd  beneath  the 
box,  the  men  in  the  box,  and  the  people  standing 
around  it,  most  of  whom  had  followed  Carter's 
plunge,  cheered  and  fell  over  him,  to  shake  hands 
and  pound  him  on  the  back.  From  every  side 

40 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

excited  photographers  pointed  cameras,  and 
Lander's  band  played:  "  Every  Little  Bit  Added 
to  What  You've  Got  Makes  Just  a  Little  Bit 
More."  As  he  left  the  box  to  collect  his  money, 
a  big  man  with  a  brown  mustache  and  two 
smooth-shaven  giants  closed  in  around  him,  as 
tackles  interfere  for  the  man  who  has  the  ball. 
The  big  man  took  him  by  the  arm.  Carter 
shook  himself  free. 

"What's  the  idea?"  he  demanded. 

"I'm  Pinkerton,"  said  the  big  man  genially. 
"You  need  a  body-guard.  If  you've  got  an 
empty  seat  in  your  car,  I'll  drive  home  with 

you." 

From  Cavanaugh  they  borrowed  a  book 
maker's  hand-bag  and  stuffed  it  with  thousand- 
dollar  bills.  When  they  stepped  into  the  car 
the  crowd  still  surrounded  them. 

"He's  taking  it  home  in  a  trunk !"  they  yelled. 

That  night  the  "sporting  extras"  of  the 
afternoon  papers  gave  prominence  to  the  luck 
at  the  races  of  Champneys  Carter.  From 
Cavanaugh  and  the  book-makers,  the  racing 
reporters  had  gathered  accounts  of  his  winnings. 
They  stated  that  in  three  successive  days, 
starting  with  one  hundred  dollars,  he  had  at 
the  end  of  the  third  day  not  lost  a  single  bet, 
and  that  afternoon,  on  the  last  race  alone,  he 
had  won  sixty  to  seventy  thousand  dollars. 
With  the  text,  they  "ran"  pictures  of  Carter 

41 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

at  the  track,  of  Dolly  in  her  box,  and  of  Mrs. 
Ingram  in  a  tiara  and  ball-dress. 

"Mother-in-law  will  be  pleased ! "cried  Carter. 

In  some  alarm  as  to  what  the  newspapers 
might  say  on  the  morrow,  he  ordered  that  in 
the  morning  a  copy  of  each  be  sent  to  his  room. 
That  night  in  his  dreams  he  saw  clouds  of  dust- 
covered  jackets  and  horses  with  sweating  flanks, 
and  one  of  them  named  Ambitious  led  all  the 
rest.  When  he  woke,  he  said  to  Dolly:  '"That 
horse  Ambitious  will  win  to-day." 

"He can  do  just  as  he  likes  about  that!"  replied 
Dolly.  "I  have  something  on  my  mind  much 
more  important  than  horse-racing.  To-day  you 
are  to  learn  how  I  spent  your  money.  It's  to 
be  in  the  morning  papers." 

When  he  came  to  breakfast,  Dolly  was  on  her 
knees.  For  his  inspection  she  had  spread  the 
newspapers  on  the  floor,  opened  at  an  advertise 
ment  that  appeared  in  each.  In  the  centre  of  a 
half-page  of  white  paper  were  the  lines : 

SOLD  OUT  IN  ONE  DAY! 


ENTIRE  FIRST  EDITION 


THE    DEAD    HEAT 

BY 

CHAMPNEYS  CARTER 


SECOND  EDITION  ONE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND 

42 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"  In  Heaven's  name ! "  roared  Carter.  "  What 
does  this  mean?" 

"It  means,"  cried  Dolly  tremulously,  "I'm 
backing  my  dream.  I've  always  believed  in 
your  book.  Now,  I'm  backing  it.  Our  lawyers 
sent  me  to  an  advertising  agent.  His  name  is 
Spink,  and  he  is  awfully  clever.  I  asked  him 
if  he  could  advertise  a  book  so  as  to  make  it 
sell.  He  said  with  my  money  and  his  ideas  he 
could  sell  last  year's  telephone  book  to  people 
who  did  not  own  a  telephone,  and  who  had 
never  learned  to  read.  He  is  proud  of  his 
ideas.  One  of  them  was  buying  out  the  first 
edition.  Your  publishers  told  him  your  book 
was  *  waste  paper,'  and  that  he  could  have  every 
copy  in  stock  for  the  cost  of  the  plates.  So  he 
bought  the  whole  edition.  That's  how  it  was 
sold  out  in  one  day.  Then  we  ordered  a  second 
edition  of  one  hundred  thousand,  and  they're 
printing  it  now. 

'  The  presses  have  been  working  all  night  to 
meet  the  demand!" 

"But,"  cried  Carter,  "there  isn't  any  de 
mand!" 

"There  will  be,"  said  Dolly,  "when  five  million 
people  read  our  advertisements." 

She  dragged  him  to  the  window  and  pointed 
triumphantly  into  the  street. 

"See  that !"  she  said.  "Mr.  Spink  sent  them 
here  for  me  to  inspect." 

43 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Drawn  up  in  a  line  that  stretched  from  Fifth 
Avenue  to  Broadway  were  an  army  of  sandwich 
men.  On  the  boards  they  carried  were  the 
words:  "Read  'The  Dead  Heat/  Second  Edi 
tion.  One  Hundred  Thousand ! "  On  the  fence 
in  front  of  the  building  going  up  across  the 
street,  in  letters  a  foot  high,  Carter  again  read 
the  name  of  his  novel.  In  letters  in  size  more 
modest,  but  in  colors  more  defiant,  it  glared  at 
him  from  ash-cans  and  barrels. 

"How  much  does  this  cost?"  he  gasped. 

"It  cost  every  dollar  you  had  in  bank," 
said  Dolly,  "and  before  we  are  through  it  will 
cost  you  twice  as  much  more.  Mr.  Spink  is 
only  waiting  to  hear  from  me  before  he  starts 
spending  fifty  thousand  dollars;  that's  only 
half  of  what  you  won  on  Red  Wing.  I'm  only 
waiting  for  you  to  make  me  out  a  check  before 
I  tell  Spink  to  start  spending  it." 

In  a  dazed  state  Carter  drew  a  check  for  fifty 
thousand  dollars  and  meekly  handed  it  to  his 
wife.  They  carried  it  themselves  to  the  office 
of  Mr.  Spink.  On  their  way,  on  every  side  they 
saw  evidences  of  his  handiwork.  On  walls,  on 
scaffolding,  on  bill-boards  were  advertisements 
of  "The  Dead  Heat."  Over  Madison  Square 
a  huge  kite  as  large  as  a  Zeppelin  air-ship  painted 
the  name  of  the  book  against  the  sky,  on 
"dodgers"  it  floated  in  the  air,  on  handbills  it 
stared  up  from  the  gutters. 

44 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Mr.  Spink  was  a  nervous  young  man  with  a 
bald  head  and  eye-glasses.  He  grasped  the 
check  as  a  general  might  welcome  fifty  thousand 
fresh  troops. 

"Reinforcements!"  he  cried.  "Now,  watch 
me.  Now  I  can  do  things  that  are  big,  national, 
Napoleonic.  We  can't  get  those  books  bound 
inside  of  a  week,  but  meanwhile  orders  will  be 
pouring  in,  people  will  be  growing  crazy  for  it. 
Every  man,  woman,  and  child  in  Greater  New 
York  will  want  a  copy.  I've  sent  out  fifty 
boys  dressed  as  jockeys  on  horseback  to  ride 
neck  and  neck  up  and  down  every  avenue. 
'The  Dead  Heat'  is  printed  on  the  saddle-cloth. 
Half  of  them  have  been  arrested  already.  It's 
a  little  idea  of  my  own." 

"But,"  protested  Carter,  "it's  not  a  racing 
story,  it's  a  detective  story!" 

"  The  devil  it  is  ! "  gasped  Spink.  "  But  what's 
the  difference!"  he  exclaimed.  "They've  got 
to  buy  it  anyway.  They'd  buy  it  if  it  was  a 
cook-book.  And,  I  say,"  he  cried  delightedly, 
"that's  great  press  work  you're  doing  for  the 
book  at  the  races !  The  papers  are  full  of  you 
this  morning,  and  every  man  who  reads  about 
your  luck  at  the  track  will  see  your  name  as 
the  author  of  'The  Dead  Heat,'  and  will  rush 
to  buy  the  book.  He'll  think  'The  Dead  Heat' 
is  a  guide  to  the  turf!" 

When  Carter  reached  the  track  he  found  his 
45 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

notoriety  had  preceded  him.  Ambitious  did  not 
run  until  the  fourth  race,  and  until  then,  as  he 
sat  in  his  box,  an  eager  crowd  surged  below.  He 
had  never  known  such  popularity.  The  crowd 
had  read  the  newspapers,  and  such  head-lines 
as  "He  Cannot  Lose!"  " Young  Carter  Wins 
$70,000 !"  "Boy  Plunger  Wins  Again !"  "Carter 
Makes  Big  Killing!"  "The  Ring  Hit  Hard!". 
"The  Man  Who  Cannot  Lose!"  "Carter  Beats 
Book-makers!"  had  whetted  their  curiosity  and 
filled  many  with  absolute  faith  in  his  luck.  Men 
he  had  not  seen  in  years  grasped  him  by  the  hand 
and  carelessly  asked  if  he  could  tell  of  some 
thing  good.  Friends  old  and  new  begged  him 
to  dine  with  them,  to  immediately  have  a  drink 
with  them,  at  least  to  "try"  a  cigar.  Men  who 
protested  they  had  lost  their  all  begged  for  just 
a  hint  which  would  help  them  to  come  out 
even,  and  every  one,  without  exception,  assured 
him  he  was  going  to  buy  his  latest  book. 

"I  tried  to  get  it  last  night  at  a  dozen  news 
stands,"  many  of  them  said,  "but  they  told  me 
the  entire  edition  was  exhausted." 

The  crowd  of  hungry-eyed  race-goers  wait 
ing  below  the  box,  and  watching  Carter's  every 
movement,  distressed  Dolly. 

"I  hate  it!"  she  cried.  "They  look  at  you 
like  a  lot  of  starved  dogs  begging  for  a  bone. 
Let's  go  home;  we  don't  want  to  make  any 

46 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

more  money,  and  we  may  lose  what  we  have. 
And  I  want  it  all  to  advertise  the  book.*' 

"If  you're  not  careful,"  said  Carter,  "some 
one  will  buy  that  book  and  read  it,  and  then 
you  and  Spink  will  have  to  take  shelter  in  a 
cyclone  cellar." 

When  he  arose  to  make  his  bet  on  Ambitious, 
his  friends  from  the  club  stand  and  a  half-dozen 
of  Pinkerton's  men  closed  in  around  him  and  in 
a  flying  wedge  pushed  into  the  ring.  The  news 
papers  had  done  their  work,  and  he  was  instantly 
surrounded  by  a  hungry,  howling  mob.  In 
comparison  with  the  one  of  the  previous  day,  it 
was  as  a  foot-ball  scrimmage  to  a  run  on  a  bank. 
When  he  made  his  first  wager  and  the  crowd 
learned  the  name  of  the  horse,  it  broke  with  a 
yell  into  hundreds  of  flying  missiles  which  hurled 
themselves  at  the  book-makers.  Under  their 
attack,  as  on  the  day  before,  Ambitious  receded 
to  even  money.  There  was  hardly  a  person  at 
the  track  who  did  not  back  the  luck  of  the  man 
who  "could  not  lose."  And  when  Ambitious 
won  easily,  it  was  not  the  horse  or  the  j@ckey 
that  was  cheered,  but  the  young  man  in  the  box. 

In  New  York  the  extras  had  already  an 
nounced  that  he  was  again  lucky,  and  when 
Dolly  and  Carter  reached  the  bank  they  found 
the  entire  staff  on  hand  to  receive  him  and  his 
winnings.  They  amounted  to  a  sum  so  magnifi- 

47 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

cent  that  Carter  found  for  the  rest  of  their  lives 
the  interest  would  furnish  Dolly  and  himself  an 
income  upon  which  they  could  live  modestly 
and  well. 

A  distinguished-looking,  white-haired  official 
of  the  bank  congratulated  Carter  warmly. 
"Should  you  wish  to  invest  some  of  this,"  he 
said,  "I  should  be  glad  to  advise  you.  My 
knowledge  in  that  direction  may  be  wider  than 
your  own." 

Carter  murmured  his  thanks.  The  white- 
haired  gentleman  lowered  his  voice. 

"On  certain  other  subjects,"  he  continued, 
"you  know  many  things  of  which  I  am  totally 
ignorant.  Could  you  tell  me,"  he  asked  care 
lessly,  "who  will  win  the  Suburban  to-morrow?" 

Carter  frowned  mysteriously.  "  I  can  tell  you 
better  in  the  morning,"  he  said.  "  It  looks  like 
Beldame,  with  Proper  and  First  Mason  within 
call." 

The  white-haired  man  showed  his  surprise  and 
also  that  his  ignorance  was  not  as  profound  as 
he  suggested. 

"I  thought  the  Keene  entry — "  he  ventured. 

"  I  know,"  said  Carter  doubtfully.  "  If  it  were 
for  a  mile,  I  would  say  Delhi,  but  I  don't  think 
he  can  last  the  distance.  In  the  morning  I'll 
wire  you." 

As  they  settled  back  in  their  car,  Carter  took 

48 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

both  of  Dolly's  hands  in  his.  "So  far  as  money 
goes,"  he  said,  "we  are  independent  of  your 
mother — independent  of  my  books;  and  I  want 
to  make  you  a  promise.  I  want  to  promise 
you  that,  no  matter  what  I  dream  in  the  future, 
I'll  never  back  another  horse." 

Dolly  gave  a  gasp  of  satisfaction. 

"And  what's  more,"  added  Carter  hastily, 
"not  another  dollar  can  you  risk  in  backing  my 
books.  After  this,  they've  got  to  stand  or  fall 
on  their  legs ! " 

"Agreed !"  cried  Dolly.  "Our  plunging  days 
are  over." 

When  they  reached  the  flat  they  found  waiting 
for  Carter  the  junior  partner  of  a  real  publishing 
house.  He  had  a  blank  contract,  and  he  wanted 
to  secure  the  right  to  publish  Carter's  next  book. 

"I  have  a  few  short  stories — "  suggested 
Carter. 

"Collections  of  short  stories,"  protested  the 
visitor  truthfully,  "do  not  sell.  We  would 
prefer  another  novel  on  the  same  lines  as  'The 
Dead  Heat.'" 

"Have  you  read  'The  Dead  Heat'?"  asked 
Carter. 

"I  have  not,"  admitted  the  publisher,  "but 
the  next  book  by  the  same  author  is  sure  to — 
We  will  pay  in  advance  of  royalties  fifteen 
thousand  dollars." 

49 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

"Could  you  put  that  in  writing?"  asked 
Carter.  When  the  publisher  was  leaving  he 
said : 

"  I  see  your  success  in  literature  is  equalled  by 
your  success  at  the  races.  Could  you  tell  me 
what  will  win  the  Suburban?" 

"  I  will  send  you  a  wire  in  the  morning,"  said 
Carter. 

They  had  arranged  to  dine  with  some  friends 
and  later  to  visit  a  musical  comedy.  Carter  had 
changed  his  clothes,  and,  while  he  was  waiting 
for  Dolly  to  dress,  was  reclining  in  a  huge  arm 
chair.  The  heat  of  the  day,  the  excitement, 
and  the  wear  on  his  nerves  caused  his  head  to 
sink  back,  his  eyes  to  close,  and  his  limbs  to 
relax. 

When,  by  her  entrance,  Dolly  woke  him,  he 
jumped  up  in  some  confusion. 

"  You've  been  asleep,"  she  mocked. 

"  Worse ! "  said  Carter.  "  I've  been  dreaming ! 
Shall  I  tell  you  who  is  going  to  win  the  Subur 
ban?" 

"Champneys!"  cried  Dolly  in  alarm. 

"My  dear  Dolly,"  protested  her  husband,  "I 
promised  to  stop  betting.  I  did  not  promise  to 
stop  sleeping." 

"Well,"  sighed  Dolly,  with  relief,  "as  long  as 
it  stops  at  that.  Delhi  will  win,"  she  added. 

"Delhi  will  not,"  said  Carter.  "This  is  how 
50 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

they  will  finish."  He  scribbled  three  names  on 
a  piece  of  paper  which  Dolly  read. 

"But  that,"  she  said,  "is  what  you  told  the 
gentleman  at  the  bank." 

Carter  stared  at  her  blankly  and  in  some 
embarrassment. 

"You  seel"  cried  Dolly,  "what  you  think 
when  you're  awake,  you  dream  when  you're 
asleep.  And  you  had  a  run  of  luck  that  never 
happened  before  and  could  never  happen  again." 

Carter  received  her  explanation  with  reluc 
tance.  "I  wonder,"  he  said. 

On  arriving  at  the  theatre  they  found  their 
host  had  reserved  a  stage-box,  and  as  there  were 
but  four  in  their  party,  and  as,  when  they  en 
tered,  the  house  lights  were  up,  their  arrival 
drew  upon  them  the  attention  both  of  those  in 
the  audience  and  of  those  on  the  stage.  The 
theatre  was  crowded  to  its  capacity,  and  in 
every  part  were  people  who  were  habitual  race 
goers,  as  well  as  many  racing  men  who  had 
come  to  town  for  the  Suburban.  By  these,  as 
well  as  by  many  others  who  for  three  days  had 
seen  innumerable  pictures  of  him,  Carter  was 
instantly  recognized.  To  the  audience  and  to 
the  performers  the  man  who  always  won  was  of 
far  greater  interest  than  what  for  the  three- 
hundredth  night  was  going  forward  on  the  stage. 
And  when  the  leading  woman,  Blanche  Winter, 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

asked  the  comedian  which  he  would  rather  be, 
"the  Man  Who  Broke  the  Bank  at  Monte  Carlo 
or  the  Man  Who  Can  Not  Lose?"  she  gained 
from  the  audience  an  easy  laugh  and  from  the 
chorus  an  excited  giggle. 

When,  at  the  end  of  the  act,  Carter  went  into 
the  lobby  to  smoke,  he  was  so  quickly  surrounded 
that  he  sought  refuge  on  Broadway.  From 
there,  the  crowd  still  following  him,  he  was 
driven  back  into  his  box.  Meanwhile,  the 
interest  shown  in  him  had  not  been  lost  upon 
the  press  agent  of  the  theatre,  and  he  at  once 
telephoned  to  the  newspaper  offices  that  Plunger 
Carter,  the  book-maker  breaker,  was  at  that 
theatre,  and  if  that  the  newspapers  wanted  a 
chance  to  interview  him  on  the  probable  out 
come  of  the  classic  handicap  to  be  run  on  the 
morrow,  he,  the  press  agent,  would  unselfishly 
assist  them.  In  answer  to  these  hurry  calls, 
reporters  of  the  Ten  o'CIock  Club  assembled  in 
the  foyer.  How  far  what  later  followed  was  due 
to  their  presence  and  to  the  efforts  of  the  press 
agent  only  that  gentleman  can  tell.  It  was  in 
the  second  act  that  Miss  Blanche  Winter  sang 
her  topical  song.  In  it  she  advised  the  audience 
when  anxious  to  settle  any  question  of  personal 
or  national  interest  to  "Put  it  up  to  the  Man  in 
the  Moon."  This  night  she  introduced  a  verse 
in  which  she  told  of  her  desire  to  know  which 

52 


horse  on  tkc  morrow  would  win  the  Suburban, 
and,  in  the  chorus,  expressed  her  determination 
to  "Put  it  up  to  the  Man  in  the  Moon." 

Instantly  from  the  back  of  the  house  a  voice 
called:  "Why  don't  you  put  it  up  to  the  Man 
in  the  Box?"  Miss  Winter  laughed — the  audi 
ence  laughed;  all  eyes  were  turned  toward 
Carter.  As  though  the  idea  pleased  them, 
from  different  parts  of  the  house  people  ap 
plauded  heartily.  In  embarrassment,  Carter 
shoved  back  his  chair  and  pulled  the  curtain  of 
the  box  between  him  and  the  audience.  But  he 
was  not  so  easily  to  escape.  Leaving  the 
orchestra  to  continue  unheeded  with  the  pre 
lude  to  the  next  verse,  Miss  Winter  walked 
slowly  and  deliberately  toward  him,  smiling 
mischievously.  In  burlesque  entreaty,  she  held 
out  her  arms.  She  made  a  most  appealing 
and  charming  picture,  and  of  that  fact  she  was 
well  aware.  In  a  voice  loud  enough  to  reach 
every  part  of  the  house,  she  addressed  herself 
to  Carter: 

"Won't  you  tell  ME?"  she  begged. 

Carter,  blushing  unhappily,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  in  apology. 

With  a  wave  of  her  hand  Miss  Winter  desig 
nated  the  audience.  "Then,"  she  coaxed,  re 
proachfully,  "won't  you  tell  them?" 

Again,  instantly,  with  a  promptness  and  una- 
53 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

nimity  that  sounded  suspiciously  as  though  it 
came  from  ushers  well  rehearsed,  several  voices 
echoed  her  petition:  "Give  us  all  a  chance!" 
shouted  one.  "Don't  keep  the  good  things  to 
yourself!"  reproached  another.  "/  want  to 
get  rich,  TOO!"  wailed  a  third.  In  his  heart, 
Carter  prayed  they  would  choke.  But  the 
audience,  so  far  from  resenting  the  interruptions, 
encouraged  them,  and  Carter's  obvious  discom 
fort  added  to  its  amusement.  It  proceeded  to 
assail  him  with  applause,  with  appeals,  with 
commands  to  "speak  up." 

The  hand-clapping  became  general — insistent. 
The  audience  would  not  be  denied.  Carter 
turned  to  Dolly.  In  the  recesses  of  the  box  she 
was  enjoying  his  predicament.  His  friends  also 
were  laughing  at  him.  Indignant  at  their  de 
sertion,  Carter  grinned  vindictively.  "All 
right,"  he  muttered  over  his  shoulder.  "Since 
you  think  it's  funny,  I'll  show  you!"  He 
pulled  his  pencil  from  his  watch-chain  and, 
spreading  his  programme  on  the  ledge  of  the 
box,  began  to  write. 

From  the  audience  there  rose  a  murmur  of  in 
credulity,  of  surprise,  of  excited  interest.  In 
the  rear  of  the  house  the  press  agent,  after  one 
startled  look,  doubled  up  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy. 
"We've  landed  him!"  he  gasped.  "We've 
landed  him!  He's  going  to  fall  for  it!" 

54 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Dolly  frantically  clasped  her  husband  by  the 
coat-tail. 

''"Champ!"    she    implored,    "what    are    you 
doing?" 

Quite  calmly,  quite  confidently,  Carter  rose. 
Leaning  forward  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  he 
presented  the  programme  to  the  beautiful  Miss 
Winter.  That  lady  all  but  snatched  at  it.  The 
spot-light  was  full  in  her  eyes.  Turning  her 
back  that  she  might  the  more  easily  read,  she 
stood  for  a  moment,  her  pretty  figure  trembling 
with  eagerness,  her  pretty  eyes  bent  upon  the 
programme.  The  house  had  grown  suddenly 
still,  and  with  an  excited  gesture,  the  leader  of 
the  orchestra  commanded  the  music  to  silence. 
A  man,  bursting  with  impatience,  broke  the 
tense  quiet.  "Read  it!"  he  shouted. 

In  a  frightened  voice  that  in  the  sudden  hush 
held  none  of  its  usual  confidence,  Miss  Winter 
read  slowly:  "The  favorite  cannot  last  the 
distance.  Will  lead  for  the  mile  and  give  way 
to  Beldame.  Proper  takes  the  place.  First 
Mason  will  show.  Beldame  will  win  by  a 
length." 

Before  she  had  ceased  reading,  a  dozen  men 
had  struggled  to  their  feet  and  a  hundred  voices 
were  roaring  at  her.  "Read  that  again!"  they 
chorused.  Once  more  Miss  Winter  read  the 
message,  but  before  she  had  finished  half  of 

55 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT   LOSE 

those  in  the  front  rows  were  scrambling  from 
their  seats  and  racing  up  the  aisles.  Already 
the  reporters  were  ahead  of  them,  and  in  the 
neighborhood  not  one  telephone  booth  was 
empty.  Within  five  minutes,  in  those  hotels 
along  the  White  Way  where  sporting  men  are 
wont  to  meet,  betting  commissioners  and  hand 
book  men  were  suddenly  assaulted  by  breathless 
gentlemen,  some  in  evening  dress,  some  without 
collars,  and  some  without  hats,  but  all  with 
money  to  bet  against  the  favorite.  And,  an 
hour  later,  men,  bent  under  stacks  of  newspaper 
"extras,"  were  vomited  from  the  subway  stations 
into  the  heart  of  Broadway,  and  in  raucous 
tones  were  shrieking,  "Winner  of  the  Suburban,'* 
sixteen  hours  before  that  race  was  run.  That 
night  to  every  big  newspaper  office  from  Maine 
to  California,  was  flashed  the  news  that  Plunger 
Carter,  in  a  Broadway  theatre,  had  announced 
that  the  favorite  for  the  Suburban  would  be 
beaten,  and,  in  order,  had  named  the  three 
horses  that  would  first  finish. 

Up  and  down  Broadway,  from  rathskellers  to 
roof-gardens,  in  cafes  and  lobster  palaces,  on  the 
corners  of  the  cross-roads,  in  clubs  and  all-night 
restaurants,  Carter's  tip  was  as  a  red  rag  to 
a  bull. 

Was  the  boy  drunk,  they  demanded,  or  had 
his  miraculous  luck  turned  his  head?  Other- 

56 


THE  MAN   WHO  COULD   NOT  LOSE 

wise,  why  would  he  so  publicly  utter  a  prophecy 
that  on  the  morrow  must  certainly  smother 
him  with  ridicule.  The  explanations  were  varied. 
The  men  in  the  clubs  held  he  was  driven  by  a 
desire  for  notoriety,  the  men  in  the  street  that 
he  was  more  clever  than  they  guessed,  and  had 
made  the  move  to  suit  his  own  book,  to  alter 
the  odds  to  his  own  advantage.  Others  frowned 
mysteriously.  With  superstitious  faith  in  his 
luck,  they  pointed  to  his  record.  "Has  he  ever 
lost  a  bet?  How  do  we  know  what  be  knows?" 
they  demanded.  "Perhaps  it's  fixed  and  he 
knows  it!" 

The  "wise"  ones  howled  in  derision.  "A 
Suburban  FIXED!"  they  retorted.  "You  can 
fix  one  jockey,  you  can  fix  two;  but  you  can't  fix 
sixteen  jockeys !  You  can't  fix  Belmont,  you 
can't  fix  Keene.  There's  nothing  in  his  picking 
Beldame,  but  only  a  crazy  man  would  pick  the 
horse  for  the  place  and  to  show,  and  shut  out 
the  favorite!  The  boy  ought  to  be  in  Matte- 
awan." 

Still  undisturbed,  still  confident  to  those  to 
whom  he  had  promised  them,  Carter  sent  a 
wire.  Nor  did  he  forget  his  old  enemy,  "Sol" 
Burbank.  "If  you  want  to  get  some  of  the 
money  I  took,"  he  telegraphed,  "wipe  out  the 
Belmont  entry  and  take  all  they  offer  on  Delhi. 
He  cannot  win." 

57 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

And  that  night,  when  each  newspaper  called 
him  up  at  his  flat,  he  made  the  same  answer. 
"The  three  horses  will  finish  as  I  said.  You 
can  state  that  I  gave  the  information  as  I  did 
as  a  sort  of  present  to  the  people  of  New  York 
City." 

In  the  papers  the  next  morning  "Carter's 
Tip"  was  the  front-page  feature.  Even  those 
who  never  in  the  racing  of  horses  felt  any  con 
cern  could  not  help  but  take  in  the  outcome  of 
this  one  a 'curious  interest.  The  audacity  of 
the  prophecy,  the  very  absurdity  of  it,  pre 
supposing,  as  it  did,  occult  power,  was  in  itself 
amusing.  And  when  the  curtain  rose  on  the 
Suburban  it  was  evident  that  to  thousands  what 
the  Man  Who  Could  Not  Lose  had  foretold  was 
a  serious  and  inspired  utterance. 

This  time  his  friends  gathered  around  him, 
not  to  benefit  by  his  advice,  but  to  protect  him. 
"They'll  mob  you!"  they  warned.  "They'll 
tear  the  clothes  off  your  back.  Better  make 
your  getaway  now." 

Dolly,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  sat  beside  him. 
Every  now  and  again  she  touched  his  hand. 
Below  his  box,  as  around  a  newspaper  office  on 
the  night  when  a  president  is  elected,  the  people 
crushed  in  a  turbulent  mob.  Some  mocked  and 
jeered,  some  who  on  his  tip  had  risked  their 
every  dollar  hailed  him  hopefully.  On  every 

58 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

side  policemen,  fearful  of  coming  trouble, 
hemmed  him  in.  Carter  was  bored  extremely, 
heartily  sorry  he  had  on  the  night  before  given 
way  to  what  he  now  saw  as  a  perverse  impulse. 
But  he  still  was  confident,  still  undismayed. 

To  all  eyes,  except  those  of  Dolly,  he  was  of 
all  those  at  the  track  the  least  concerned.  To 
her  he  turned  and,  in  a  low  tone,  spoke  swiftly. 
"I  am  so  sorry,"  he  begged.  "But,  indeed, 
indeed,  I  can't  lose.  You  must  have  faith 


in  me." 


"In  you,  yes,"  returned  Dolly  in  a  whisper, 
"but  in  your  dreams,  no!" 

The  horses  were  passing  on  their  way  to  the 
post.  Carter  brought  his  face  close  to  hers. 
"I'm  going  to  break  my  promise,"  he  said, 
"and  make  one  more  bet,  this  one  with  you. 
I  bet  you  a  kiss  that  I'm  right." 

Dolly,  holding  back  her  tears,  smiled  mourn 
fully. 

"Make  it  a  hundred,"  she  said. 

Half  of  the  forty  thousand  at  the  track  had 
backed  Delhi,  the  other  half,  following  Carter's 
luck  and  his  confidence  in  proclaiming  his  con 
victions,  had  backed  Beldame.  Many  hundred 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  bet  that  the  three  horses 
he  had  named  would  finish  as  he  had  foretold. 
But,  in  spite  of  Carter's  tip,  Delhi  still  was  the 
favorite,  and  when  the  thousands  saw  the  Keene 

59 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

polka-dots  leap  to  the  front,  and  by  two  lengths 
stay  there,  for  the  quarter,  the  half,  and  for 
the  three-quarters,  the  air  was  shattered  with 
jubilant,  triumphant  yells.  And  then  suddenly, 
with  the  swiftness  of  a  moving  picture,  in  the 
very  moment  of  his  victory,  Beldame  crept 
up  on  the  favorite,  drew  alongside,  drew  ahead, 
passed  him,  and  left  him  beaten. 

It  was  at  the  mile. 

The  night  before  a  man  had  risen  in  a  theatre 
and  said  to  two  thousand  people:  "The  favorite 
will  lead  for  the  mile,  and  give  way  to  Beldame." 
Could  they  have  believed  him,  the  men  who  now 
cursed  themselves  might  for  the  rest  of  their 
lives  have  lived  upon  their  winnings.  Those 
who  had  followed  his  prophecy  faithfully,  super- 
stitiously,  now  shrieked  in  happy,  riotous  self- 
congratulation.  "At  the  MILE!"  they  yelled. 
"He  TOLD  you,  at  the  MILE!"  They  turned 
toward  Carter  and  shook  Panama  hats  at  him. 
"Oh,  you  Carter!"  they  shrieked  lovingly. 

It  was  more  than  a  race  the  crowd  was 
watching  now,  it  was  the  working  out  of  a 
promise.  And  when  Beldame  stood  off  Proper's 
rush,  and  Proper  fell  to  second,  and  First  Mason 
followed  three  lengths  in  the  rear,  and  in  that 
order  they  flashed  under  the  wire,  the  yells 
were  not  that  a  race  had  been  won,  but  that  a 
prophecy  had  been  fulfilled. 

60 


THE  MAN  WHO  COULD  NOT  LOSE 

Of  the  thousands  that  cheered  Carter  and  fell 
upon  him  and  indeed  did  tear  his  clothes  off 
his  back,  one  of  his  friends  alone  was  sufficiently 
unselfish  to  think  of  what  it  might  mean  to 
Carter. 

"Champ!"  roared  his  friend,  pounding  him 
on  both  shoulders.  f<  You  old  wizard!  I  win  tea 
thousand!  How  much  do  you  win?" 

Carter  cast  a  swift  glance  at  Dolly.  "Oh!"1 
he  said,  "I  win  much  more  than  that." 

And  Dolly,  raising  her  eyes  to  his,  nodded  and 
smiled  contentedly. 


61 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

THIS  is  a  true  story  of  a  search  for  buried 
treasure.  The  only  part  that  is  not  true  is  the 
name  of  the  man  with  whom  I  searched  for  the 
treasure.  Unless  I  keep  his  name  out  of  it  he 
will  not  let  me  write  the  story,  and,  as  it  was 
Iiis  expedition  and  as  my  share  of  the  treasure  is 
only  what  I  can  make  by  writing  the  story,  I 
must  write  as  he  dictates.  I  think  the  story 
should  be  told,  because  our  experience  was 
unique,  and  might  be  of  benefit  to  others. 

And,  besides,  I  need  the  money. 

There  is,  however,  no  agreement  preventing 
me  from  describing  him  as  I  think  he  is,  or 
reporting,  as  accurately  as  I  can,  what  he  said 
and  did  as  he  said  and  did  it. 

For  purposes  of  identification  I  shall  call  him 
Edgar  Powell.  The  last  name  has  no  signifi 
cance;  but  the  first  name  is  not  chosen  at 
random.  The  leader  of  our  expedition,  the  head 
and  brains  of  it,  was  and  is  the  sort  of  man  one 
would  address  as  Edgar.  No  one  would  think 
of  calling  him  "Ed,"  or  "Eddie,"  any  more 
than  he  would  consider  slapping  him  on  the 
back. 

62 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

We  were  together  at  college;  but,  as  six 
hundred  other  boys  were  there  at  the  same  time, 
that  gives  no  clew  to  his  identity.  Since  those 
days,  until  he  came  to  see  me  about  the  treasure, 
we  had  not  met.  All  I  knew  of  him  was  that  he 
had  succeeded  his  father  in  manufacturing  un 
shrinkable  flannels.  Of  course,  the  reader  under 
stands  that  is  not  the  article  of  commerce  he 
manufactures;  but  it  is  near  enough,  and  it 
suggests  the  line  of  business  to  which  he  gives 
his  life's  blood.  It  is  not  similar  to  my  own 
line  of  work,  and  in  consequence,  when  he  wrote 
me,  on  the  unshrinkable  flannels  official  writing- 
paper,  that  he  wished  to  see  me  in  reference  to 
a  matter  of  business  of  "mutual  benefit,"  I  was 
considerably  puzzled. 

A  few  days  later,  at  nine  in  the  morning,  an 
hour  of  his  own  choosing,  he  came  to  my  rooms 
in  New  York  City. 

Except  that  he  had  grown  a  beard,  he  was  as 
I  remembered  him,  thin  and  tall,  but  with  no 
chest,  and  stooping  shoulders.  He  wore  eye 
glasses,  and  as  of  old  through  these  he  regarded 
you  disapprovingly  and  warily  as  though  he 
suspected  you  might  try  to  borrow  money,  or 
even  joke  with  him.  As  with  Edgar  I  had  never 
felt  any  temptation  to  do  either,  this  was  ir 
ritating. 

But  from  force  of  former  habit  we  greeted  each 

63 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

other  by  our  first  names,  and  he  suspiciously 
accepted  a  cigar.  Then,  after  fixing  me  both 
with  his  eyes  and  with  his  eye-glasses  and 
swearing  me  to  secrecy,  he  began  abruptly. 

"Our  mills,"  he  said,  "are  in  New  Bedford; 
and  I  own  several  small  cottages  there  and  in 
Fairhaven.  I  rent  them  out  at  a  moderate 
rate.  The  other  day  one  of  my  tenants,  a 
Portuguese  sailor,  was  taken  suddenly  ill  and 
sent  for  me.  He  had  made  many  voyages  in 
and  out  of  Bedford  to  the  South  Seas,  whaling, 
and  he  told  me  on  his  last  voyage  he  had  touched 
at  his  former  home  at  TenerifFe.  There  his 
grandfather  had  given  him  a  document  that  had 
been  left  him  by  bis  father.  His  grandfather 
said  it  contained  an  important  secret,  but  one 
that  was  of  value  only  in  America,  and  that 
when  he  returned  to  that  continent  he  must 
be  very  careful  to  whom  he  showed  it.  He 
told  me  it  was  written  in  a  kind  of  English  he 
could  not  understand,  and  that  he  had  been 
afraid  to  let  any  one  see  it.  He  wanted  me  to 
accept  the  document  in  payment  of  the  rent  he 
owed  me,  with  the  understanding  that  I  was  not 
to  look  at  it,  and  that  if  he  got  well  I  was  to 
give  it  back.  If  he  pulled  through,  he  was  to 
pay  me  in  some  other  way;  but  if  he  died  I  was 
to  keep  the  document.  About  a  month  ago  he 
died,  and  I  examined  the  paper.  It  purports 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

to  tell  where  there  is  buried  a  pirate's  treasure. 
And,"  added  Edgar,  gazing  at  me  severely  and 
as  though  he  challenged  me  to  contradict  him, 
"I  intend  to  dig  for  it!" 

Had  he  told  me  he  contemplated  crossing  the 
Rocky  Mountains  in  a  Baby  Wright,  or  leading 
a  cotillon,  I  could  not  have  been  more  aston 
ished.  I  am  afraid  I  laughed  aloud. 

"You!"  I  exclaimed.  "Search  for  buried 
treasure?" 

My  tone  visibly  annoyed  him.  Even  the  eye 
glasses  radiated  disapproval. 

"I  see  nothing  amusing  in  the  idea,"  Edgar 
protested  coldly.  "  It  is  a  plain  business  propo 
sition.  I  find  the  outlay  will  be  small,  and  if  I 
am  successful  the  returns  should  be  large;  at 
a  rough  estimate  about  one  million  dollars." 

Even  to-day,  no  true  American,  at  the  thought 
of  one  million  dollars,  can  remain  covered. 
His  letter  to  me  had  said,  "for  our  mutual  bene 
fit."  I  became  respectful  and  polite,  I  might 
even  say  abject.  After  all,  the  ties  that  bind 
as  in  those  dear  old  college  days  are  not  lightly 
to  be  disregarded. 

"If  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  Edgar,  old 
man,"  I  assured  him  heartily,  "if  I  can  help 
you  find  it,  you  know  I  shall  be  only  too  happy." 

With  regret  I  observed  that  my  generous 
offer  did  not  seem  to  deeply  move  him. 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

"  I  came  to  you  in  this  matter,"  he  continued 
stiffly,  "because  you  seemed  to  be  the  sort  of 
person  who  would  be  interested  in  a  search  for 
buried  treasure." 

"I  am,"  I  exclaimed.     "Always  have  been." 

"Have  you,"  he  demanded  searchingly,  "any 
practical  experience  ?  " 

I  tried  to  appear  at  ease;  but  I  knew  then 
just  how  the  man  who  applies  to  look  after  your 
furnace  feels,  when  you  ask  him  if  he  can  also 
run  a  sixty  horse-power  dynamo. 

"I  have  never  actually  found  any  buried 
treasure,"  I  admitted;  "but  I  know  where  lots 
of  it  is,  and  I  know  just  how  to  go  after  it." 
I  endeavored  to  dazzle  him  with  expert  knowl 
edge. 

"Of  course,"  I  went  on  airily,  "I  am  familiar 
with  all  the  expeditions  that  have  tried  for  the 
one  on  Cocos  Island,  and  I  know  all  about  the 
Peruvian  treasure  on  Trinidad,  and  the  lost 
treasures  of  Jalisco  near  Guadalajara,  and  the 
sunken  galleon  on  the  Grand  Cayman,  and  when 
I  was  on  the  Isle  of  Pines  I  had  several  very 
tempting  offers  to  search  there.  And  the  late 
Captain  Boynton  invited  me " 

"But,"  interrupted  Edgar  in  a  tone  that 
would  tolerate  no  trifling,  "you  yourself  have 
never  financed  or  organized  an  expedition  with 

the  object  in  view  of " 

66 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

"Oh,  that  part's  easy!"  I  assured  him. 
"The  fitting-out  part  you  can  safely  leave  to 
me."  I  assumed  a  confidence  that  I  hoped  he 
might  believe  was  real.  "There's  always  a 
tramp  steamer  in  the  Erie  Basin,"  I  said, 
"that  one  can  charter  for  any  kind  of  adventure, 
and  I  have  the  addresses  of  enough  soldiers  of 
fortune,  filibusters,  and  professional  revolution 
ists  to  man  a  battle-ship,  all  fine  fellows  in  a 
tight  corner.  And  I'll  promise  you  they'll  fol 
low  us  to  hell,  and  back " 

"That!"  exclaimed  Edgar,  "is  exactly  what 
I  feared." 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  I  exclaimed. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  dont  want,"  said 
Edgar  sternly.  "  I  don't  intend  to  get  into  any 
tight  corners.  I  don't  want  to  go  to  hell ! " 

I  saw  that  in  my  enthusiasm  I  had  per 
haps  alarmed  him.  I  continued  more  temper 
ately. 

"Any  expedition  after  treasure,"  I  pointed 
out,  "is  never  without  risk.  You  must  have 
discipline,  and  you  must  have  picked  men. 
Suppose  there's  a  mutiny?  Suppose  they  try 
to  rob  us  of  the  treasure  on  our  way  home? 
We  must  have  men  we  can  rely  on,  and  men 
who  know  how  to  pump  a  Winchester.  I  can 
get  you  both.  And  Bannerman  will  furnish  me 
with  anything  from  a  pair  of  leggins  to  a  quick- 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

firing  gun,  and  on  Clark  Street  they'll  quote 
me  a  special  rate  on  ship  stores,  hydraulic 
pumps,  divers'  helmets " 

Edgar's  eye-glasses  became  frosted  with  cold, 
condemnatory  scorn.  He  shook  his  head  dis 
gustedly. 

"I  was  afraid  of  this!"  he  murmured. 

I  endeavored  to  reassure  him. 

"A  little  danger,"  I  laughed,  "only  adds  to 
the  fun." 

"  I  want  you  to  understand,"  exclaimed  Edgar 
indignantly,  "there  isn't  going  to  be  any  danger. 
There  isn't  going  to  be  any  fun.  This  is  a 
plain  business  proposition.  I  asked  you  those 
questions  just  to  test  you.  And  you  approached 
the  matter  exactly  as  I  feared  you  would.  I 
was  prepared  for  it.  In  fact,"  he  explained 
shamefacedly,  "I've  read  several  of  your  little 
stories,  and  I  find  they  run  to  adventure  and 
blood  and  thunder;  they  are  not  of  the  analyt 
ical  school  of  fiction.  Judging  from  them," 
he  added  accusingly,  "you  have  a  tendency  to 
the  romantic."  He  spoke  reluctantly  as  though 
saying  I  had  a  tendency  to  epileptic  fits  or  the 
morphine  habit. 

"I  am  afraid,"  I  was  forced  to  admit,  "that  to 
me  pirates  and  buried  treasure  always  suggest 
adventure.  And  your  criticism  of  my  writings 
is  well  observed.  Others  have  discovered  the 

68 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

same  fatal  weakness.  We  cannot  all,"  I  pointed 
out,  "manufacture  unshrinkable  flannels." 

At  this  compliment  to  his  more  fortunate 
condition,  Edgar  seemed  to  soften. 

"I  grant  you,"  he  said,  "that  the  subject  has 
almost  invariably  been  approached  from  the 
point  of  view  you  take.  And  what,"  he  de 
manded  triumphantly,  "has  been  the  result? 
Failure,  or  at  least,  before  success  was  attained, 
a  most  unnecessary  and  regrettable  loss  of 
blood  and  life.  Now,  on  my  expedition,  I  do 
not  intend  that  any  blood  shall  be  shed,  or  that 
anybody  shall  lose  his  life.  I  have  not  entered 
into  this  matter  hastily.  I  have  taken  out 
information,  and  mean  to  benefit  by  other 
people's  mistakes.  When  I  decided  to  go  on 
with  this,"  he  explained,  "I  read  all  the  books 
that  bear  on  searches  for  buried  treasure,  and 
I  found  that  in  each  case  the  same  mistakes 
were  made,  and  that  then,  in  order  to  remedy 
the  mistakes,  it  was  invariably  necessary  to 
kill  somebody.  Now,  by  not  making  those 
mistakes,  it  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  kill 
any  one,  and  nobody  is  going  to  have  a  chance 
to  kill  me. 

"You  propose  that  we  fit  out  a  schooner  and 
sign  on  a  crew.  What  will  happen?  A  man 
with  a  sabre  cut  across  his  forehead,  or  with  a 
black  patch  over  one  eye,  will  inevitably  be  one 

69 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

of  that  crew.  And,  as  soon  as  we  sail,  he  will 
at  once  begin  to  plot  against  us.  A  cabin  boy, 
who  the  conspirators  think  is  asleep  in  his  bunk, 
will  overhear  their  plot  and  will  run  to  the 
quarter-deck  to  give  warning;  but  a  pistol 
shot  rings  out,  and  the  cabin  boy  falls  at  the 
foot  of  the  companion  ladder.  The  cabin  boy 
is  always  the  first  one  to  go.  After  that  the 
mutineers  kill  the  first  mate,  and  lock  us  in  our 
cabin,  and  take  over  the  ship.  They  will  then 
broach  a  cask  of  rum,  and  all  through  the  night 
we  will  listen  to  their  drunken  howlings,  and 
from  the  cabin  airport  watch  the  body  of  the 
first  mate  rolling  in  the  lee  scuppers." 

"But  you  forget,"  I  protested  eagerly,  "there 
is  always  one  faithful  member  of  the  crew, 
who " 

Edgar  interrupted  me  impatiently. 

"I  have  not  overlooked  him,"  he  said.  "He 
is  a  Jamaica  negro  of  gigantic  proportions,  or 
the  ship's  cook;  but  he  always  gets  his  too,  and 
he  gets  it  good.  They  throw  him  to  the  sharks  ! 
Then  we  all  camp  out  on  a  desert  island  in 
habited  only  by  goats,  and  we  build  a  stockade, 
and  the  mutineers  come  to  treat  with  us  under 
a  white  flag,  and  we,  trusting  entirely  to  their 
honor,  are  fools  enough  to  go  out  and  talk  with 
them.  At  which  they  shoot  us  up,  and  withdraw 
laughing  scornfully."  Edgar  fixed  his  eye 
glasses  upon  me  accusingly. 

70 


"Am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong?"  he  demanded. 
I  was  unable  to  answer. 

"The  only  man/'  continued  Edgar  warmly, 
"who  ever  showed  the  slightest  intelligence  in 
the  matter  was  the  fellow  in  the  'Gold  Bug/ 
He  kept  his  mouth  shut.  He  never  let  any  one 
know  that  he  was  after  buried  treasure,  until  he 
found  it.  That's  me!  Now  I  know  exactly 
where  this  treasure  is,  and ' 

I  suppose,  involuntarily,  I  must  have  given  a 
start  of  interest;  for  Edgar  paused  and  shook 
his  head,  slyly  and  cunningly. 

"And  if  you  think  I  have  the  map  on  my 
person  now,"  he  declared  in  triumph,  "you'll 
have  to  guess  again ! " 

"Really,"  I  protested,  "I  had  no  inten 
tion— 

"Not  you,  perhaps,"  said  Edgar  grudgingly; 
"but  your  Japanese  valet  conceals  himself 
behind  those  curtains,  follows  me  home,  and 
at  night— 

"I  haven't  got  a  valet,"  I  objected. 

Edgar  merely  smiled  with  the  most  aggra 
vating  self-sufficiency.  "It  makes  no  differ 
ence,"  he  declared.  "No  one  will  ever  find 
that  map,  or  see  that  map,  or  know  where  that 
treasure  is,  until  /  point  to  the  spot." 

"Your  caution  is  admirable,"  I  said;  "but 
what,"  I  jeered,  "makes  you  think  you  can  point 
to  the  spot, — because  your  map  says  something 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

like,  'Through  the  Sunken  Valley  to  Witch's 
Caldron,  four  points  N.  by  N.  E.  to  Gallows 
Hill  where  the  shadow  falls  at  sunrise,  fifty 
fathoms  west,  fifty  paces  north  as  the  crow 
flies,  to  the  Seven  Wells'?  How  the  deuce," 
I  demanded,  "is  any  one  going  to  point  to  that 
spot?" 

"It  isn't  that  kind  of  map,"  shouted  Edgar 
triumphantly.  "  If  it  had  been,  I  wouldn't  have 
gone  on  with  it.  It's  a  map  anybody  can  read 
except  a  half-caste  Portuguese  sailor.  It's  as 
plain  as  a  laundry  bill.  It  says,"  he  paused 
apprehensively,  and  then  continued  with  cau 
tion,  "it  says  at  such  and  such  a  place  there  is  a 
something.  So  many  somethings  from  that 
something  are  three  what-you-may-call-'ems, 
and  in  the  centre  of  these  three  what-you-may- 
call-'ems  is  buried  the  treasure.  It's  as  plain 
as  that!" 

"Even  with  the  few  details  you  have  let  es 
cape  you,"  I  said,  "  I  could  find  that  spot  in  my 
sleep." 

"  I  don't  think  you  could,"  said  Edgar  uncom 
fortably;  but  I  could  see  that  he  had  mentally 
warned  himself  to  be  less  communicative. 
"And,"  he  went  on,  "I  am  willing  to  lead  you 
to  it,  if  you  subscribe  to  certain  conditions." 

Edgar's  insulting  caution  had  ruffled  my 
spirit. 

72 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

"Why  do  you  think  you  can  trust  ME?"  I 
asked  haughtily,  And  then,  remembering  my 
share  of  the  million  dollars,  I  added  in  haste, 
"I  accept  the  conditions." 

"Of  course,  as  you  say,  one  has  got  to  take 
some  risk,"  Edgar  continued;  "but  I  feel  sure," 
he  said,  regarding  me  doubtfully,  "you  would 
not  stoop  to  open  robbery."  I  thanked  him. 

"Well,  until  one  is  tempted,"  said  Edgar,  "one 
never  knows  what  he  might  do.  And  I've  sim 
ply  got  to  have  one  other  man,  and  I  picked 
on  you  because  I  thought  you  could  write  about 


"I  see,"  I  said,  "I  am  to  act  as  the  historian 
of  the  expedition." 

"That  will  be  arranged  later,"  said  Edgar. 
"What  I  chiefly  want  you  for  is  to  dig.  Can 
you  dig?"  he  asked  eagerly.  I  told  him  I 
could;  but  that  I  would  rather  do  almost 
anything  else. 

"  I  must  have  one  other  man,"  repeated  Edgar, 
"a  man  who  is  strong  enough  to  dig,  and  strong 
enough  to  resist  the  temptation  to  murder  me." 
The  retort  was  so  easy  that  I  let  it  pass.  Be 
sides,  on  Edgar,  it  would  have  been  wasted. 

"I  think  you  will  do,"  he  said  with  reluctance. 
"And  now  the  conditions!" 

I  smiled  agreeably. 

"You  are  already  sworn  to  secrecy,"  said 
73 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

Edgar.  "And  you  now  agree  in  every  detail 
to  obey  me  implicitly,  and  to  accompany  me  to 
a  certain  place,  where  you  will  dig.  If  I  find 
the  treasure,  you  agree  to  help  me  guard  it, 
and  convey  it  to  wherever  I  decide  it  is  safe  to 
leave  it.  Your  responsibility  is  then  at  an  end. 
One  year  after  the  treasure  is  discovered,  you 
will  be  free  to  write  the  account  of  the  expedi 
tion.  For  what  you  write,  some  magazine  may 
pay  you.  What  it  pays  you  will  be  your  share 
of  the  treasure." 

Of  my  part  of  the  million  dollars,  which  I  had 
hastily  calculated  could  not  be  less  than  one- 
fifth,  I  had  already  spent  over  one  hundred 
thousand  dollars  and  was  living  far  beyond  my 
means.  I  had  bought  a  farm  with  a  water 
front  on  the  Sound,  a  motor-boat,  and,  as  I 
was  not  sure  which  make  I  preferred,  three 
automobiles.  I  had  at  my  own  expense  pro 
duced  a  play  of  mine  that  no  manager  had 
appreciated,  and  its  name  in  electric  lights  was 
already  blinding  Broadway.  I  had  purchased 
a  Hollander  express  rifle,  a  real  amber  cigar 
holder,  a  private  secretary  who  could  play  both 
rag-time  and  tennis,  and  a  fur  coat.  So  Edgar's 
generous  offer  left  me  naked.  When  I  had 
again  accustomed  myself  to  the  narrow  confines 
of  my  flat,  and  the  jolt  of  the  surface  cars,  I 
asked  humbly: 

74 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

"Is  that  ALL  I  get?" 

"Why  should  you  expect  any  more?"  de 
manded  Edgar.  "It  isn't  your  treasure.  You 
wouldn't  expect  me  to  make  you  a  present  of  an 
interest  in  my  mills;  why  should  you  get  a 
share  of  my  treasure?"  He  gazed  at  me 
reproachfully.  "I  thought  you'd  be  pleased," 
he  said.  "  It  must  be  hard  to  think  of  things  to 
write  about,  and  I'm  giving  you  a  subject  for 
nothing.  I  thought,"  he  remonstrated,  "you'd 
jump  at  the  chance.  It  isn't  every  day  a  man 
can  dig  for  buried  treasure." 

"That's  all  right,"  I  said.  "Perhaps  I  appre 
ciate  that  quite  as  well  as  you  do.  But  my  time 
has  a  certain  small  value,  and  I  can't  leave  my 
work  just  for  excitement.  We  may  be  weeks, 
months—  How  long  do  you  think  we ' 

Behind  his  eye-glasses  Edgar  winked  re 
provingly. 

"That  is  a  leading  question,"  he  said.  "I 
will  pay  all  your  legitimate  expenses — trans 
portation,  food,  lodging.  .  It  won't  cost  you  a 
cent.  And  you  write  the  story — with  my  name 
left  out,"  he  added  hastily;  "it  would  hurt  my 
standing  in  the  trade,"  he  explained — "and  get 
paid  for  it." 

I  saw  a  sea  voyage  at  Edgar's  expense.  I  saw 
palm  leaves,  coral  reefs.  I  felt  my  muscles 
aching  and  the  sweat  run  from  my  neck  and 

75 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

shoulders  as  I  drove  my  pick  into  the  chest  of 
gold. 

"I'll  go  you !"  I  said.  We  shook  hands  on  it. 
"When  do  we  start ?"  I  asked. 

"Now !"  said  Edgar.  I  thought  he  wished  to 
test  me;  he  had  touched  upon  one  of  my  pet 
vanities. 

"You  can't  do  that  with  me!"  I  said.  "My 
bags  are  packed  and  ready  for  any  place  in  the 
wide  world,  except  the  cold  places.  I  can  start 
this  minute.  Where  is  it,  the  Gold  Coast,  the 
Ivory  Coast,  the  Spanish  Main- 
Edgar  frowned  inscrutably.  "Have  you  an 
empty  suit-case?"  he  asked. 

"Why  EMPTY?"  I  demanded. 

"To  carry  the  treasure,"  said  Edgar.  "I  left 
mine  in  the  hall.  We  will  need  two." 

"And  your  trunks?"  I  said. 

"  There  aren't  going  to  be  any  trunks,"  said 
Edgar.  From  his  pocket  he  had  taken  a  folder 
of  the  New  Jersey  Central  Railroad.  "If  we 
hurry,"  he  exclaimed,  "we  can  catch  the  ten- 
thirty  express,  and  return  to  New  York  in  time 
for  dinner." 

"And  what  about  the  treasure?"  I  roared. 

"We'll  bring  it  with  us,"  said  Edgar. 

I  asked  for  information.  I  demanded  confi 
dences.  Edgar  refused  both.  I  insisted  that  I 
might  be  allowed  at  least  to  carry  my  automatic 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

pistol.  "Suppose  some  one  tries  to  take  the 
treasure  from  us?"  I  pointed  out. 

"No  one,"  said  Edgar  severely,  "would  be 
such  an  ass  as  to  imagine  we  are  carrying  buried 
treasure  in  a  suit-case.  He  will  think  it  con 
tains  pajamas." 

"  For  local  color,  then,"  I  begged,  "  I  want  to 
say  in  my  story  that  I  went  heavily  armed." 

"Say  it,  then,"  snapped  Edgar.  "But  you 
can't  DO  it!  Not  with  me,  you  can't!  How 
do  I  know  you  mightn't — "  He  shook  his  head 
warily. 

It  was  a  day  in  early  October,  the  haze  of 
Indian  summer  was  in  the  air,  and  as  we  crossed 
the  North  River  by  the  Twenty-third  Street 
Ferry  the  sun  flashed  upon  the  white  clouds 
overhead  and  the  tumbling  waters  below.  On 
each  side  of  us  great  vessels  with  the  Blue 
Peter  at  the  fore  lay  at  the  wharfs  ready  to 
cast  off,  or  were  already  nosing  their  way  down 
the  channel  toward  strange  and  beautiful  ports. 
Lamport  and  Holt  were  rolling  down  to  Rio; 
the  Royal  Mail's  Magdalena,  no  longer  "white 
and  gold,"  was  off  to  Kingston,  where  once 
seven  pirates  swung  in  chains;  the  Clyde  was 
on  her  way  to  Hayti  where  the  buccaneers  came 
from;  the  Morro  Castle  was  bound  for  Havana, 
which  Morgan,  king  of  all  the  pirates,  had  once 
made  his  own;  and  the  Red  D  was  steaming  to 

77 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

Porto  Cabello  where  Sir  Francis  Drake,  as  big 
a  buccaneer  as  any  of  them,  lies  entombed  in 
her  harbor.  And  /  was  setting  forth  on  a 
buried-treasure  expedition  on  a  snub-nosed, 
flat-bellied,  fresh-water  ferry-boat,  bound  for 
Jersey  City !  No  one  will  ever  know  my  sense 
of  humiliation.  And,  when  the  Italian  boy 
insulted  my  immaculate  tan  shoes  by  pointing 
at  them  and  saying,  "Shine?"  I  could  have 
slain  him.  Fancy  digging  for  buried  treasure 
in  freshly  varnished  boots !  But  Edgar  did  not 
mind.  To  him  there  was  nothing  lacking;  it 
was  just  as  it  should  be.  He  was  deeply  en 
grossed  in  calculating  how  many  offices  were 
for  rent  in  the  Singer  Building ! 

When  we  reached  the  other  side,  he  refused  to 
answer  any  of  my  eager  questions.  He  would 
not  let  me  know  even  for  what  place  on  the  line 
he  had  purchased  our  tickets,  and,  as  a  hint  that 
I  should  not  disturb  him,  he  stuffed  into  my 
hands  the  latest  magazines.  "At  least  tell  me 
this,"  I  demanded.  "Have  you  ever  been  to 
this  place  before  to-day?" 

"Once,"  said  Edgar  shortly,  "last  week. 
That's  when  I  found  out  I  would  need  some  one 
with  me  who  could  dig." 

"How  do  you  know  it's  the  right  place?"  I 
whispered. 

The  summer  season  was  over,  and  of  the  chair 

78 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

car  we  were  the  only  occupants;  but,  before  he 
answered,  Edgar  looked  cautiously  round  him 
and  out  of  the  window.  We  had  just  passed 
Red  Bank. 

"Because  the  map  told  me,"  he  answered. 
"Suppose,"  he  continued  fretfully,  "you  had  a 
map  of  New  York  City  with  the  streets  marked 
on  it  plainly  ?  Suppose  the  map  said  that  if  you 
walked  to  where  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue 
meet,  you  would  find  the  Flatiron  Building. 
Do  you  think  you  could  find  it?" 

"Was  it  as  easy  as  that  ?"  I  gasped. 

"  It  was  as  easy  as  that !"  said  Edgar. 

I  sank  back  into  my  chair  and  let  the  maga 
zines  slide  to  the  floor.  What  fiction  story  was 
there  in  any  one  of  them  so  enthralling  as  the 
actual  possibilities  that  lay  before  me?  In  two 
hours  I  might  be  bending  over  a  pot  of  gold,  a 
sea  chest  stuffed  with  pearls  and  rubies ! 

I  began  to  recall  all  the  stories  I  had  heard  as 
a  boy  of  treasure  buried  along  the  coast  by  Kidd 
on  his  return  voyage  from  the  Indies.  Where 
along  the  Jersey  sea-line  were  there  safe  harbors? 
The  train  on  which  we  were  racing  south  had 
its  rail  head  at  Barnegat  Bay.  And  between 
Barnegat  and  Red  Bank  there  now  was  but  one 
other  inlet,  that  of  the  Manasquan  River.  It 
might  be  Barnegat;  it  might  be  Manasquan. 
It  could  not  be  a  great  distance  from  either; 

79 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

for  sailors  would  not  have  carried  their  burden 
far  from  the  ship.  I  glanced  appealingly  at 
Edgar.  He  was  smiling  happily  over  "  Pickings 
from  Puck."  We  passed  Asbury  Park  and 
Ocean  Grove,  halted  at  Sea  Girt,  and  again  at 
Manasquan;  but  Edgar  did  not  move.  The 
next  station  was  Point  Pleasant,  and  as  the  train 
drew  to  a  stop,  Edgar  rose  calmly  and  grasped 
his  suit-case. 

"We  get  out  here,"  he  said. 

Drawn  up  at  the  station  were  three  open-work 
hacks  with  fringe  around  the  top.  From  each 
a  small  boy  waved  at  us  with  his  whip. 

"Curtis  House?  The  Gladstone?  The  Cot 
tage  in  the  Pines?"  they  chanted  invitingly. 

"Take  me  to  a  hardware  store,"  said  Edgar, 
"where  one  can  buy  a  spade."  When  we 
stopped  I  made  a  move  to  get  down ;  but  Edgar 
stopped  me. 

I  protested  indignantly,  "I  haven't  mucb  to 
say  about  this  expedition,"  I  exclaimed;  "but, 
as  /  have  to  do  the  digging,  I  intend  to  choose 
my  own  spade." 

Edgar's  eye-glasses  flashed  defiance.  "You 
have  given  your  word  to  obey  me,"  he  said 
sternly.  "If  you  do  not  intend  to  obey  me,  you 
can  return  in  ten  minutes  by  the  next  train." 

I  sank  into  my  seat.  In  a  moment  the  mutiny 
had  been  crushed.  Not  even  a  cabin  boy  had 

80 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

fallen !  Edgar  returned  with  a  spade,  an  axe, 
and  a  pick.  He  placed  them  in  the  seat  beside 
the  boy  driver. 

"What  is  your  name,  boy?"  he  asked. 

"Rupert,"  said  the  boy. 

"Rupert,"  continued  Edgar,  "drive  us  to  the 
beach.  When  you  get  to  the  bathing  pavilions 
keep  on  along  the  shore  toward  Manasquan  In 
let."  He  touched  the  spade  with  his  hand.  "  I 
have  bought  a  building  lot  on  the  beach,"  he 
explained,  "and  am  going  to  dig  a  hole,  and 
plant  a  flagpole." 

I  was  choked  with  indignation.  As  a  writer 
of  fiction  my  self-respect  was  insulted. 

"If  there  are  any  more  lies  to  be  told,"  I 
whispered,  "please  let  me  tell  them.  Your 
invention  is  crude,  ridiculous!  Why,"  I  de 
manded,  "should  anybody  want  to  plant  a 
flagpole  on  a  wind-swept  beach  in  October? 
It's  not  the  season  for  flagpoles.  Besides,"  I 
jeered,  "where  is  your  flagpole?  Is  it  concealed 
in  the  suit-case?" 

Edgar  frowned  uneasily,  and  touched  the  boy 
on  the  shoulder. 

"The  flagpole  itself,"  he  explained,  "is  com 
ing  down  to-morrow  by  express." 

The  boy  yawned,  and  slapped  the  flanks  of 
his  horse  with  the  reins.  "Gat  up!"  he  said. 

We  crossed  the  railroad  tracks  and  moved 
81 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

toward  the  ocean  down  a  broad,  sandy  road. 
The  season  had  passed  and  the  windows  of  the 
cottages  and  bungalows  on  either  side  of  the 
road  were  barricaded  with  planks.  On  the 
verandas  hammocks  abandoned  to  the  winds 
hung  in  tatters,  on  the  back  porches  the  doors 
of  empty  refrigerators  swung  open  on  one  hinge, 
and  on  every  side  above  the  fields  of  gorgeous 
golden-rod  rose  signs  reading  "For  Rent/' 
When  we  had  progressed  in  silence  for  a  mile, 
the  sandy  avenue  lost  itself  in  the  deeper  sand 
of  the  beach,  and  the  horse  of  his  own  will 
came  to  a  halt.  On  one  side  we  were  sur 
rounded  by  locked  and  deserted  bathing  houses, 
on  the  other  by  empty  pavilions  shuttered  and 
barred  against  the  winter,  but  still  inviting  one 
to  "Try  our  salt  water  taffy"  or  to  "Keep  cool 
with  an  ice-cream  soda."  Rupert  turned  and 
looked  inquiringly  at  Edgar.  To  the  north  the 
beach  stretched  in  an  unbroken  line  to  Manas- 
quan  Inlet.  To  the  south  three  miles  away  we 
could  see  floating  on  the  horizon-like  a  mirage 
the  hotels  and  summer  cottages  of  Bay  Head. 

"Drive  toward  the  inlet,"  directed  Edgar. 
"This  gentleman  and  I  will  walk." 

Relieved  of  our  weight,  the  horse  stumbled 
bravely  into  the  trackless  sand,  while  below  on 
the  damper  and  firmer  shingle  we  walked  by 
the  edge  of  the  water. 

82 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

The  tide  was  coming  in  and  the  spent  waves, 
spreading  before  them  an  advance  guard  of  tiny 
shells  and  pebbles,  threatened  our  boots,  and  at 
the  same  time  in  soothing,  lazy  whispers  warned 
us  of  their  attack.  These  lisping  murmurs  and 
the  crash  and  roar  of  each  incoming  wave  as  it 
broke  were  the  only  sounds.  And  on  the  beach 
we  were  the  only  human  figures.  At  last  the 
scene  began  to  bear  some  resemblance  to  one 
set  for  an  adventure.  The  rolling  ocean,  a 
coast  steamer  dragging  a  great  column  of  black 
smoke,  and  cast  high  upon  the  beach  the  wreck 
of  a  schooner,  her  masts  tilting  drunkenly,  gave 
color  to  our  purpose.  It  became  filled  with 
greater  promise  of  drama,  more  picturesque. 
I  began  to  thrill  with  excitement.  I  regarded 
Edgar  appealingly,  in  eager  supplication.  At 
last  he  broke  the  silence  that  was  torturing  me. 

"We  will  now  walk  higher  up,"  he  com 
manded.  "  If  we  get  our  feet  wet,  we  may  take 
cold." 

My  spirit  was  too  far  broken  to  make  reply. 
But  to  my  relief  I  saw  that  in  leaving  the  beach 
Edgar  had  some  second  purpose.  With  each 
heavy  step  he  was  drawing  toward  two  high 
banks  of  sand  in  a  hollow  behind  which,  pro 
tected  by  the  banks,  were  three  stunted,  wind- 
driven  pines.  His  words  came  back  to  me. 
"So  many  what-you-may-call-'ems."  Were 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

these  pines  the  three  somethings  from  something, 
the  what-you-may-call-'ems?  The  thought 
chilled  me  to  the  spine.  I  gazed  at  them  fas 
cinated.  I  felt  like  falling  on  my  knees  in  the 
sand  and  tearing  their  secret  from  them  with 
my  bare  hands.  I  was  strong  enough  to  dig 
them  up  by  the  roots,  strong  enough  to  dig  the 
Panama  Canal!  I  glanced  tremulously  at  Ed 
gar.  His  eyes  were  wide  open  and,  eloquent 
with  dismay,  his  lower  jaw  had  fallen.  He 
turned  and  looked  at  me  for  the  first  time  with 
consideration.  Apology  and  remorse  were  writ 
ten  in  every  line  of  his  countenance. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  stammered.  I  had  a  cruel 
premonition.  I  exclaimed  with  distress. 

"You  have  lost  the  map!"  I  hissed. 

"No,  no,"  protested  Edgar;  "but  I  entirely 
forgot  to  bring  any  lunch!" 

With  violent  mutterings  I  tore  off  my  upper 
and  outer  garments  and  tossed  them  into  the 
hack. 

"Where  do  I  begin?"  I  asked. 

Edgar  pointed  to  a  spot  inside  the  triangle 
formed  by  the  three  trees  and  equally  distant 
from  each. 

"Put  that  horse  behind  the  bank,"  I  com 
manded,  "where  no  one  can  see  him!  And 
both  you  and  Rupert  keep  off  the  sky-line!" 

From  the  north  and  south  we  were  now  all 
84 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

three  hidden  by  the  two  high  banks  of  sand;  to 
the  east  lay  the  beach  and  the  Atlantic  Ocean, 
and  to  the  west  stretches  of  marshes  that  a 
mile  away  met  a  wood  of  pine  trees  and  the 
railroad  round-house. 

I  began  to  dig.  I  knew  that  weary  hours  lay 
before  me,  and  I  attacked  the  sand  leisurely  and 
with  deliberation.  It  was  at  first  no  great  effort; 
but  as  the  hole  grew  in  depth,  and  the  roots  of 
the  trees  were  exposed,  the  work  was  sufficient 
for  several  men.  Still,  as  Edgar  had  said,  it  is 
not  every  day  that  one  can  dig  for  treasure,  and 
in  thinking  of  what  was  to  come  I  forgot  my 
hands  that  quickly  blistered,  and  my  breaking 
back.  After  an  hour  I  insisted  that  Edgar 
should  take  a  turn;  but  he  made  such  poor 
headway  that  my  patience  could  not  contain  me, 
and  I  told  him  I  was  sufficiently  rested  and 
would  continue.  With  alacrity  he  scrambled 
out  of  the  hole,  and,  taking  a  cigar  from  my  case, 
seated  himself  comfortably  in  the  hack.  I 
took  MY  comfort  in  anticipating  the  thrill  that 
would  be  mine  when  the  spade  would  ring  on 
the  ironbound  chest;  when,  with  a  blow  of  the 
axe,  I  would  expose  to  view  the  hidden  jewels, 
the  pieces  of  eight,  coated  with  verdigris,  the 
string  of  pearls,  the  chains  of  yellow  gold. 
Edgar  had  said  a  million  dollars.  That  must 
mean  there  would  be  diamonds,  many  dia- 

85 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

monds.  I  would  hold  them  in  my  hands, 
watch  them,  at  the  sudden  sunshine,  blink  their 
eyes  and  burst  into  tiny,  burning  fires.  In  im 
agination  I  would  replace  them  in  the  setting, 
from  which,  years  before,  they  had  been  stolen. 
I  would  try  to  guess  whence  they  came — from 
a  jewelled  chalice  in  some  dim  cathedral,  from 
the  breast  of  a  great  lady,  from  the  hilt  of  an 
admirars  sword. 

After  another  hour  I  lifted  my  aching  shoul 
ders  and,  wiping  the  sweat  from  my  eyes, 
looked  over  the  edge  of  the  hole.  Rupert,  with 
his  back  to  the  sand-hill,  was  asleep.  Edgar 
with  one  hand  was  waving  away  the  mosquitoes 
and  in  the  other  was  holding  one  of  the  maga 
zines  he  had  bought  on  the  way  down.  I  could 
even  see  the  page  upon  which  his  eyes  were 
riveted.  It  was  an  advertisement  for  breakfast 
food.  In  my  indignation  the  spade  slipped 
through  my  cramped  and  perspiring  fingers, 
and  as  it  struck  the  bottom  of  the  pit,  something 
—a  band  of  iron,  a  steel  lock,  an  iron  ring- 
gave  forth  a  muffled  sound.  My  heart  stopped 
beating  as  suddenly  as  though  Mr.  Corbett  had 
hit  it  with  his  closed  fist.  My  blood  turned  to 
melted  ice.  I  drove  the  spade  down  as  fiercely 
as  though  it  was  a  dagger.  It  sank  into  rotten 
wood.  I  had  made  no  sound;  for  I  could 
hardly  breathe.  But  the  slight  noise  of  the 

86 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

blow  had  reached  Edgar.  I  heard  the  springs 
of  the  hack  creak  as  he  vaulted  from  it,  and  the 
next  moment  he  was  towering  above  me,  peering 
down  into  the  pit.  His  eyes  were  wide  with 
excitement,  greed,  and  fear.  In  his  hands  he 
clutched  the  two  suit-cases.  Like  a  lion  de 
fending  his  cubs  he  glared  at  me. 

"Get  out!'*  he  shouted. 

"Like  hell!"  I  said. 

"Get  out!"  he  roared.  "I'll  do  the  rest. 
That's  mine,  not  yours!  Get  out!" 

With  a  swift  kick  I  brushed  away  the  sand. 
I  found  I  was  standing  on  a  squat  wooden  box, 
bound  with  bands  of  rusty  iron.  I  had  only  to 
stoop  to  touch  it.  It  was  so  rotten  that  I  could 
have  torn  it  apart  with  my  bare  hands.  Edgar 
was  dancing  on  the  edge  of  the  pit,  incidentally 
kicking  sand  into  my  mouth  and  nostrils. 

"  You  promised  me !"  he  roared.  "  You  prom 
ised  to  obey  me!" 

"You  ass!"  I  shouted.  "Haven't  I  done  all 
the  work?  Don't  I  get— 

"You  get  out!"  roared  Edgar. 

Slowly,  disgustedly,  with  what  dignity  one 
can  display  in  crawling  out  of  a  sand-pit,  I 
scrambled  to  the  top. 

"Go  over  there,"  commanded  Edgar  pointing, 
"and  sit  down." 

In    furious    silence    I    seated    myself   beside 

87 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

Rupert.  He  was  still  slumbering  and  snoring 
happily.  From  where  I  sat  I  could  see  nothing 
of  what  was  going  forward  in  the  pit,  save  once, 
when  the  head  of  Edgar,  his  eyes  aflame  and  his 
hair  and  eye-glasses  sprinkled  with  sand,  ap 
peared  above  it.  Apparently  he  was  fearful 
lest  I  had  moved  from  the  spot  where  he  had 
placed  me.  I  had  not;  but  had  he  known  my 
inmost  feelings  he  would  have  taken  the  axe 
into  the  pit  with  him. 

I  must  have  sat  so  for  half  an  hour.  In  the 
sky  above  me  a  fish-hawk  drifted  lazily.  From 
the  beach  sounded  the  steady  beat  of  the 
waves,  and  from  the  town  across  the  marshes 
came  the  puffing  of  a  locomotive  and  the  clang 
ing  bells  of  the  freight  trains.  The  breeze 
from  the  sea  cooled  the  sweat  on  my  aching 
body;  but  it  could  not  cool  the  rage  in  my  heart. 
If  I  had  had  the  courage  of  my  feelings,  I  would 
have  cracked  Edgar  over  the  head  with  the 
spade,  buried  him  in  the  pit,  bribed  Rupert, 
and  forever  after  lived  happily  on  my  ill-gotten 
gains.  That  was  how  Kidd,  or  Morgan,  or 
Blackbeard  would  have  acted.  I  cursed  the 
effete  civilization  which  had  taught  me  to  want 
many  pleasures  but  had  left  me  with  a  con 
science  that  would  not  let  me  take  human  life 
to  obtain  them,  not  even  Edgar's  life. 

In  half  an  hour  a  suit-case  was  lifted  into  view 


o 


o 

•(-> 

<u 

o 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

and  dropped  on  the  edge  of  the  pit.  It  was 
followed  by  the  other,  and  then  by  Edgar. 
Without  asking  me  to  help  him,  because  he 
probably  knew  I  would  not,  he  shovelled  the 
sand  into  the  hole,  and  then  placed  the  suit 
cases  in  the  carriage.  With  increasing  anger  I 
observed  that  the  contents  of  each  were  so 
heavy  that  to  lift  it  he  used  both  hands. 

"There  is  no  use  your  asking  any  questions," 
he  announced,  "because  I  won't  answer  them." 

I  gave  him  minute  directions  as  to  where  he 
could  go;  but  instead  we  drove  in  black  silence 
to  the  station.  There  Edgar  rewarded  Rupert 
with  a  dime,  and  while  we  waited  for  the  train 
to  New  York  placed  the  two  suit-cases  against 
the  wall  of  the  ticket  office  and  sat  upon  them. 
When  the  train  arrived  he  warned  me  in  a  hoarse 
whisper  that  I  had  promised  to  help  him  guard 
the  treasure,  and  gave  me  one  of  the  suit-cases. 
It  weighed  a  ton.  Just  to  spite  Edgar,  I  had  a 
plan  to  kick  it  open,  so  that  every  one  on  the 
platform  might  scramble  for  the  contents.  But 
again  my  infernal  New  England  conscience 
restrained  me. 

Edgar  had  secured  the  drawing-room  in  the 
parlor- car,  and  when  we  were  safely  inside  and 
the  door  bolted  my  curiosity  became  stronger 
than  my  pride. 

"Edgar,"   I  said,   "your  ingratitude  is  con- 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

temptible.  Your  suspicions  are  ridiculous ;  but, 
under  these  most  unusual  conditions,  I  don't 
blame  you.  But  we  are  quite  safe  now.  The 
door  is  fastened,"  I  pointed  out  ingratiatingly, 
"and  this  train  doesn't  stop  for  another  forty 
minutes.  I  think  this  would  be  an  excellent 
time  to  look  at  the  treasure." 

"I  don't!"  said  Edgar. 

I  sank  back  into  my  chair.  With  intense  en 
joyment  I  imagined  the  train  in  which  we  were 
seated  hurling  itself  into  another  train;  and 
everybody,  including  Edgar,  or,  rather,  es 
pecially  Edgar,  being  instantly  but  painlessly 
killed.  By  such  an  act  of  an  all-wise  Providence 
I  would  at  once  become  heir  to  one  million 
dollars.  It  was  a  beautiful,  satisfying  dream. 
Even  my  conscience  accepted  it  with  a  smug 
smile.  It  was  so  vivid  a  dream  that  I  sat 
guiltily  expectant,  waiting  for  the  crash  to  come, 
for  the  shrieks  and  screams,  for  the  rush  of 
escaping  steam  and  breaking  window-panes. 

But  it  was  far  too  good  to  be  true.  Without 
a  jar  the  train  carried  us  and  its  precious  burden 
in  safety  to  the  Jersey  City  terminal.  And 
each,  with  half  a  million  dollars  in  his  hand, 
hurried  to  the  ferry,  assailed  by  porters,  news 
boys,  hackmen.  To  them  we  were  a  couple  of 
commuters  saving  a  dime  by  carrying  our  own 
hand-bags. 

90 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

It  was  now  six  o'clock,  and  I  pointed  out  to 
Edgar  that  at  that  hour  the  only  vaults  open 
were  those  of  the  Night  and  Day  Bank.  And 
to  that  institution  in  a  taxicab  we  at  once  made 
our  way.  I  paid  the  chauffeur,  and  two  minutes 
later,  with  a  gasp  of  relief  and  rejoicing,  I 
dropped  the  suit-case  I  had  carried  on  a  table 
in  the  steel-walled  fastnesses  of  the  vaults. 
Gathered  excitedly  around  us  were  the  officials 
of  the  bank,  summoned  hastily  from  above,  and 
watchmen  in  plain  clothes,  and  watchmen  in 
uniforms  of  gray.  Great  bars  as  thick  as  my 
leg  protected  us.  Walls  of  chilled  steel  rising 
from  solid  rock  stood  between  our  treasure  and 
the  outer  world.  Until  then  I  had  not  known 
how  tremendous  the  nervous  strain  had  been; 
but  now  it  came  home  to  me.  I  mopped  the 
perspiration  from  my  forehead,  I  drew  a  deep 
breath. 

"Edgar,"  I  exclaimed  happily,  "I  congratu 
late  you ! " 

I  found  Edgar  extending  toward  me  a  two- 
dollar  bill.  "You  gave  the  chauffeur  two  dol 
lars,"  he  said.  "The  fare  was  really  one  dollar 
eighty;  so  you  owe  me  twenty  cents." 

Mechanically  I  laid  two  dimes  upon  the 
table. 

"All  the  other  expenses,"  continued  Edgar, 
"which  I  agreed  to  pay,  I  have  paid."  He  made 

91 


MY  BURIED  TREASURE 

a  peremptory  gesture.  "I  won't  detain  you 
any  longer,"  he  said.  "Good-night!" 

"Good-night!"  I  cried.  "Don't  I  see  the 
treasure?"  Against  the  walls  of  chilled  steel 
my  voice  rose  like  that  of  a  tortured  soul. 
"Don't  I  touch  it!"  I  yelled.  "Don't  I  even 
get  a  squint?" 

Even  the  watchmen  looked  sorry  for  me. 

"You  do  not!"  said  Edgar  calmly.  "You 
have  fulfilled  your  part  of  the  agreement.  I 
have  fulfilled  mine.  A  year  from  now  you  can 
write  the  story."  As  I  moved  in  a  dazed  state 
toward  the  steel  door,  his  voice  halted  me. 

"And  you  can  say  in  your  story,"  called 
Edgar,  "that  there  is  only  one  way  to  get  a 
buried  treasure.  That  is  to  go,  and  get  it!" 


THE  CONSUL 

FOR  over  forty  years,  in  one  part  of  the  world 
or  another,  old  man  Marshall  had  served  his 
country  as  a  United  States  consul.  He  had 
been  appointed  by  Lincoln.  For  a  quarter  of  a 
century  that  fact  was  his  distinction.  It  was 
now  his  epitaph.  But  in  former  years,  as  each 
new  administration  succeeded  the  old,  it  had 
again  and  again  saved  his  official  head.  When 
victorious  and  voracious  place-hunters,  search 
ing  the  map  of  the  world  for  spoils,  dug  out  his 
hiding-place  and  demanded  his  consular  sign 
as  a  reward  for  a  younger  and  more  aggressive 
party  worker,  the  ghost  of  the  dead  President 
protected  him.  In  the  State  Department,  Mar 
shall  had  become  a  tradition.  "You  can't 
touch  HIM!"  the  State  Department  would  say; 
"why,  HE  was  appointed  by  Lincoln!"  Se 
cretly,  for  this  weapon  against  the  hungry  head- 
hunters,  the  department  was  infinitely  grateful. 
Old  man  Marshall  was  a  consul  after  its  own 
heart.  Like  a  soldier,  he  was  obedient,  dis 
ciplined;  wherever  he  was  sent,  there,  without 
question,  he  would  go.  Never  against  exile, 
against  ill-health,  against  climate  did  he  make 

93 


THE  CONSUL 

complaint.  Nor  when  he  was  moved  on  and 
down  to  make  way  for  some  ne'er-do-well  with 
influence,  with  a  brother-in-law  in  the  Senate, 
with  a  cousin  owning  a  newspaper,  with  rich 
relatives  who  desired  him  to  drink  himself  to 
death  at  the  expense  of  the  government  rather 
than  at  their  own,  did  old  man  Marshall  point 
to  his  record  as  a  claim  for  more  just  treatment. 

And  it  had  been  an  excellent  record.  His  offi 
cial  reports,  in  a  quaint,  stately  hand,  were 
models  of  English;  full  of  information,  intelli 
gent,  valuable,  well  observed.  And  those  few 
of  his  countrymen,  who  stumbled  upon  him  in 
the  out-of-the-world  places  to  which  of  late  he 
had  been  banished,  wrote  of  him  to  the  depart 
ment  in  terms  of  admiration  and  awe.  Never 
had  he  or  his  friends  petitioned  for  promotion, 
until  it  was  at  last  apparent  that,  save  for  his 
record  and  the  memory  of  his  dead  patron,  he 
had  no  friends.  But,  still  in  the  department  the 
tradition  held  and,  though  he  was  not  advanced, 
he  was  not  dismissed. 

"If  that  old  man's  been  feeding  from  the 
public  trough  ever  since  the  Civil  War,"  pro 
tested  a  "practical"  politician,  "it  seems  to 
me,  Mr.  Secretary,  that  he's  about  had  his 
share.  Ain't  it  time  he  give  some  one  else  a 
bite?  Some  of  us  that  has  done  the  work, 

that  has  borne  the  brunt " 

94 


THE  CONSUL 

"This  place  he  now  holds,"  interrupted  the 
Secretary  of  State  suavely,  "is  one  hardly  com 
mensurate  with  services  like  yours.  I  can't 
pronounce  the  name  of  it,  and  I'm  not  sure  just 
where  it  is,  but  I  see  that,  of  the  last  six  consuls 
we  sent  there,  three  resigned  within  a  month 
and  the  other  three  died  of  yellow-fever.  Still, 
if  you  insist " 

The  practical  politician  reconsidered  hastily. 
"I'm  not  the  sort,"  he  protested,  "to  turn  out  a 
man  appointed  by  our  martyred  President. 
Besides,  he's  so  old  now,  if  the  fever  don't 
catch  him,  he'll  die  of  old  age,  anyway." 

The  Secretary  coughed  uncomfortably.  "And 
they  say,"  he  murmured,  "republics  are  un 
grateful." 

"I  don't  quite  get  that,"  said  the  practical 
politician. 

Of  Porto  Banos,  of  the  Republic  of  Colombia, 
where  as  consul  Mr.  Marshall  was  upholding 
the  dignity  of  the  United  States,  little  could  be 
said  except  that  it  possessed  a  sure  harbor. 
When  driven  from  the  Caribbean  Sea  by  stress 
of  weather,  the  largest  of  ocean  tramps,  and 
even  battle-ships,  could  find  in  its  protecting 
arms  of  coral  a  safe  shelter.  But,  as  young  Mr. 
Aiken,  the  wireless  operator,  pointed  out,  unless 
driven  by  a  hurricane  and  the  fear  of  death, 
no  one  ever  visited  it.  Back  of  the  ancient 

95 


THE  CONSUL 

wharfs,  that  dated  from  the  days  when  Porto 
Banos  was  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods  for  buc 
caneers  and  pirates,  were  rows  of  thatched  huts, 
streets,  according  to  the  season,  of  dust  or  mud, 
a  few  iron-barred,  jail-like  barracks,  custom 
houses,  municipal  buildings,  and  the  white 
washed  adobe  houses  of  the  consuls.  The  back 
yard  of  the  town  was  a  swamp.  Through  this 
at  five  each  morning  a  rusty  engine  pulled  a 
train  of  flat  cars  to  the  base  of  the  mountains, 
and,  if  meanwhile  the  rails  had  not  disappeared 
into  the  swamp,  at  five  in  the  evening  brought 
back  the  flat  cars  laden  with  odorous  coffee- 
sacks. 

In  the  daily  life  of  Porto  Banos,  waiting  for 
the  return  of  the  train,  and  betting  if  it  would 
return,  was  the  chief  interest.  Each  night  the 
consuls,  the  foreign  residents,  the  wireless  opera 
tor,  the  manager  of  the  rusty  railroad  met  for 
dinner.  There  at  the  head  of  the  long  table, 
by  virtue  of  his  years,  of  his  courtesy  and  dis 
tinguished  manner,  of  his  office,  Mr.  Marshall 
presided.  Of  the  little  band  of  exiles  he  was 
the  chosen  ruler.  His  rule  was  gentle.  By 
force  of  example  he  had  made  existence  in  Porto 
Banos  more  possible.  For  women  and  children 
Porto  Banos  was  a  death-trap,  and  before  "old 
man  Marshall"  came  there  had  been  no  influence 
to  remind  the  enforced  bachelors  of  other  days. 


THE  CONSUL 

They  had  lost  interest,  had  grown  lax,  irritable^ 
morose.  Their  white  duck  was  seldom  white. 
Their  cheeks  were  unshaven.  When  the  sun 
sank  into  the  swamp  and  the  heat  still  turned 
Porto  Banos  into  a  Turkish  bath,  they  threw 
dice  on  the  greasy  tables  of  the  Cafe  Bolivar 
for  drinks.  The  petty  gambling  led  to  petty 
quarrels;  the  drinks  to  fever.  The  coming  of 
Mr.  Marshall  changed  that.  His  standard  of 
life,  his  tact,  his  worldly  wisdom,  his  cheerful 
courtesy,  his  fastidious  personal  neatness  shamed 
the  younger  men;  the  desire  to  please  him,  to 
stand  well  in  his  good  opinion,  brought  back 
pride  and  self-esteem. 

The  lieutenant  of  her  Majesty's  gun-boat 
Plover  noted  the  change. 

"Used  to  be,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  couldn't  get 
out  of  the  Cafe  Bolivar  without  some  one  stick 
ing  a  knife  in  you;  now  it's  a  debating  club. 
They  all  sit  round  a  table  and  listen  to  an  old 
gentleman  talk  world  politics." 

If  Henry  Marshall  brought  content  to  the 
exiles  of  Porto  Banos,  there  was  little  in  return 
that  Porto  Banos  could  give  to  him.  Maga 
zines  and  correspondents  in  six  languages  kept 
him  in  touch  with  those  foreign  lands  in  which 
he  had  represented  his  country,  but  of  the 
country  he  had  represented,  newspapers  and 
periodicals  showed  him  only  too  clearly  that  in 

97 


THE  CONSUL 

forty  years  it  had  grown  away  from  him,  had 
changed  beyond  recognition. 

When  last  he  had  called  at  the  State  Depart 
ment,  he  had  been  made  to  feel  he  was  a  man 
without  a  country,  and  when  he  visited  his  home 
town  in  Vermont,  he  was  looked  upon  as  a  Rip 
Van  Winkle.  Those  of  his  boyhood  friends  who 
were  not  dead  had  long  thought  of  him  as  dead. 
And  the  sleepy,  pretty  village  had  become  a 
bustling  commercial  centre.  In  the  lanes  where, 
as  a  young  man,  he  had  walked  among  wheat- 
fields,  trolley-cars  whirled  between  rows  of  mills 
and  factories.  The  children  had  grown  to 
manhood,  with  children  of  their  own. 

Like  a  ghost,  he  searched  for  house  after  house, 
where  once  he  had  been  made  welcome,  only  to 
find  in  its  place  a  towering  office  building.  "AH 
had  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces."  In  vain  he 
scanned  even  the  shop  fronts  for  a  friendly, 
homelike  name.  Whether  the  fault  was  his, 
whether  he  would  better  have  served  his  own 
interests  than  those  of  his  government,  it  now 
was  too  late  to  determine.  In  his  own  home,  he 
was  a  stranger  among  strangers.  In  the  service 
he  had  so  faithfully  followed,  rank  by  rank,  he 
had  been  dropped,  until  now  he,  who  twice  had 
been  a  consul-general,  was  an  exile,  banished  to 
a  fever  swamp.  The  great  Ship  of  State  had 
dropped  him  overside,  had  "marooned"  him, 
and  sailed  away. 

Q-8 


THE  CONSUL 

Twice  a  day  he  walked  along  the  shell  road  to 
the  Cafe  Bolivar,  and  back  again  to  the  consul 
ate.  There,  as  he  entered  the  outer  office,  Jose, 
the  Colombian  clerk,  would  rise  and  bow 
profoundly. 

"Any  papers  for  me  to  sign,  Jose?  "  the  consul 
would  ask. 

"Not  to-day,  Excellency,"  the  clerk  would 
reply.  Then  Jose  would  return  to  writing  a 
letter  to  his  lady-love;  not  that  there  was  any 
thing  to  tell  her,  but  because  writing  on  the 
official  paper  of  the  consulate  gave  him  impor 
tance  in  his  eyes,  and  in  hers.  And  in  the  inner 
office  the  consul  would  continue  to  gaze  at  the 
empty  harbor,  the  empty  coral  reefs,  the  empty, 
burning  sky. 

The  little  band  of  exiles  were  at  second  break 
fast  when  the  wireless  man  came  in  late  to 
announce  that  a  Red  D.  boat  and  the  island 
of  Cura?oa  had  both  reported  a  hurricane 
coming  north.  Also,  that  much  concern  was  felt 
for  the  safety  of  the  yacht  Serapis.  Three  days 
before,  in  advance  of  her  coming,  she  had 
sent  i  a  wireless  to  Wilhelmstad,  asking  the 
captain  of  the  port  to  reserve  a  berth  for 
her.  She  expected  to  arrive  the  following 
morning. 

But  for  forty-eight  hours  nothing  had  been 
heard  from  her,  and  it  was  believed  she  had  been 
overhauled  by  the  hurricane.  Owing  to  the 

99 


THE  CONSUL 

presence  on  board  of  Senator  Hanley,  the 
closest  friend  of  the  new  President,  the  man 
who  had  made  him  president,  much  concern  was 
felt  at  Washington.  To  try  to  pick  her  up  by 
wireless,  the  gun-boat  Newark  had  been  ordered 
from  Culebra,  the  cruiser  Raleigh,  with  Admiral 
Hardy  on  board,  from  Colon.  It  was  possible 
she  would  seek  shelter  at  Porto  Banos.  The 
consul  was  ordered  to  report. 

As  Marshall  wrote  out  his  answer,  the  French 
consul  exclaimed  with  interest: 

"He  is  of  importance,  then,  this  senator?" 
he  asked.  "Is  it  that  in  your  country  ships  of 
war  are  at  the  service  of  a  senator?" 

Aiken,  the  wireless  operator,  grinned  de 
risively. 

"At  the  service  of  this  senator,  they  are!"  he 
answered.  "They  call  him  the  'king-maker,' 
the  man  behind  the  throne." 

"But  in  your  country,"  protested  the  French 
man,  "there  is  no  throne.  I  thought  your 
president  was  elected  by  the  people?" 

"  That's  what  the  people  think,"  answered 
Aiken.  "In  God's  country,"  he  explained,  "the 
trusts  want  a  rich  man  in  the  Senate,  with  the 
same  interests  as  their  own,  to  represent  them. 
They  chose  Hanley.  He  picked  out  of  the  can 
didates  for  the  presidency  the  man  he  thought 
would  help  the  interests.  He  nominated  him, 

100 


THE  CONSUL 

and  the  people  voted  for  him.  Hanley  is  what 
we  call  a  'boss/  ' 

The  Frenchman  looked  inquiringly  at  Mar 
shall. 

"The  position  of  the  boss  is  the  more  danger 
ous,"  said  Marshall  gravely,  "because  it  is 
unofficial,  because  there  are  no  laws  to  curtail 
his  powers.  Men  like  Senator  Hanley  are  a 
menace  to  good  government.  They  see  in  pub 
lic  office  only  a  reward  for  party  workers." 

"That's  right,"  assented  Aiken.  "Your  forty 
years'  service,  Mr.  Consul,  wouldn't  count  with 
Hanley.  If  he  wanted  your  job,  he'd  throw 
you  out  as  quick  as  he  would  a  drunken  cook." 

Mr.  Marshall  flushed  painfully,  and  the 
French  consul  hastened  to  interrupt. 

"Then,  let  us  pray,"  he  exclaimed,  with  fer 
vor,  "that  the  hurricane  has  sunk  the  Serapis, 
and  all  on  board." 

Two  hours  later,  the  Serapis,  showing  she  had 
met  the  hurricane  and  had  come  out  second 
best,  steamed  into  the  harbor. 

Her  owner  was  young  Herbert  Livingstone, 
of  Washington.  He  once  had  been  in  the 
diplomatic  service,  and,  as  minister  to  The 
Hague,  wished  to  return  to  it.  In  order  to 
bring  this  about  he  had  subscribed  liberally  to 
the  party  campaign  fund. 

With  him,  among  other  distinguished  persons, 
101 


THE  CONSUL 

was  the  all-powerful  Hanley.  The  kidnapping 
of  Hanley  for  the  cruise,  in  itself,  demonstrated 
the  ability  of  Livingstone  as  a  diplomat.  It 
was  the  opinion  of  many  that  it  would  surely 
lead  to  his  appointment  as  a  minister  pleni 
potentiary.  Livingstone  was  of  the  same 
opinion.  He  had  not  lived  long  in  the  nation's 
capital  without  observing  the  value  of  propin 
quity.  How  many  men  he  knew  were  now 
paymasters,  and  secretaries  of  legation,  solely 
because  those  high  in  the  government  met  them 
daily  at  the  Metropolitan  Club,  and  preferred 
them  in  almost  any  other  place.  And  if,  after 
three  weeks  as  his  guest  on  board  what  the 
newspapers  called  his  floating  palace,  the  senator 
could  refuse  him  even  the  prize  legation  of 
Europe,  there  was  no  value  in  modest  merit. 
As  yet,  Livingstone  had  not  hinted  at  his 
ambition.  There  was  no  need.  To  a  states 
man  of  Hanley' s  astuteness,  the  largeness  of 
Livingstone's  contribution  to  the  campaign  fund 
was  self-explanatory. 

After  her  wre*stling-match  with  the  hurricane, 
all  those  on  board  the  Serapis  seemed  to  find  in 
land,  even  in  the  swamp  land  of  Porto  Banos, 
a  compelling  attraction.  Before  the  anchors 
hit  the  water,  they  were  in  the  launch.  On 
reaching  shore,  they  made  at  once  for  the  con 
sulate.  There  were  many  cables  they  wished 

1 02 


THE  CONSUL 

to  start  on  their  way  by  wireless;  cables  to 
friends,  to  newspapers,  to  the  government. 

Jose,  the  Colombian  clerk,  appalled  by  the 
unprecedented  invasion  of  visitors,  of  visitors  so 
distinguished,  and  Marshall,  grateful  for  a 
chance  to  serve  his  fellow-countrymen,  and 
especially  his  countrywomen,  were  ubiquitous, 
eager,  indispensable.  At  Jose's  desk  the  great 
senator,  rolling  his  cigar  between  his  teeth,  was 
using,  to  Jose's  ecstasy,  Jose's  own  pen  to  write 
a  reassuring  message  to  the  White  House.  At 
the  consul's  desk  a  beautiful  creature,  all  in 
lace  and  pearls,  was  struggling  to  compress  the 
very  low  opinion  she  held  of  a  hurricane  into 
ten  words.  On  his  knee,  Henry  Cairns,  the 
banker,  was  inditing  instructions  to  his  Wall 
Street  office,  and  upon  himself  Livingstone  had 
taken  the  responsibility  of  replying  to  the 
inquiries  heaped  upon  Marshall's  desk,  from 
many  newspapers. 

It  was  just  before  sunset,  and  Marshall  pro 
duced  his  tea  things,  and  the  young  person  in 
pearls  and  lace,  who  was  Miss  Cairns,  made  tea 
for  the  women,  and  the  men  mixed  gin  and 
limes  with  tepid  water.  The  consul  apolo 
gized  for  proposing  a  toast  in  which  they  could 
not  join.  He  begged  to  drink  to  those  who  had 
escaped  the  perils  of  the  sea.  Had  they  been 
his  oldest  and  nearest  friends,  his  little  speech 

103 


THE  CONSUL 

could  not  have  been  more  heart-felt  and  sincere. 
To  his  distress,  it  moved  one  of  the  ladies  to 
tears,  and  in  embarrassment  he  turned  to  the 
men. 

"I  regret  there  is  no  ice,"  he  said,  "but  you 
know  the  rule  of  the  tropics;  as  soon  as  a  ship 
enters  port,  the  ice-machine  bursts." 

"I'll  tell  the  steward  to  send  you  some,  sir," 
said  Livingstone,  "and  as  long  as  we're 
here " 

The  senator  showed  his  concern. 

"As  long  as  we're  here?"  he  gasped. 

"Not  over  two  days,"  answered  the  owner 
nervously.  "The  chief  says  it  will  take  all  of 
that  to  get  her  in  shape.  As  you  ought  to  know, 
Senator,  she  was  pretty  badly  mauled." 

The  senator  gazed  blankly  out  of  the  window. 
Beyond  it  lay  the  naked  coral  reefs,  the  empty 
sky,  and  the  ragged  palms  of  Porto  Banos. 

Livingstone  felt  that  his  legation  was  slipping 
from  him. 

"That  wireless  operator,"  he  continued  hast 
ily,  "tells  me  there  is  a  most  amusing  place  a 
a  few  miles  down  the  coast,  Las  Bocas,  a  sort 
of  Coney  Island,  where  the  government  people 
go  for  the  summer.  There's  surf  bathing  and 
roulette  and  cafes  chantants.  He  says  there's 
some  Spanish  dancers 

The  guests  of  the  Serapis  exclaimed  with 
104 


THE  CONSUL 

interest;  the  senator  smiled.  To  Marshall  the 
general  enthusiasm  over  the  thought  of  a  ride 
on  a  merry-go-round  suggested  that  the  friends 
of  Mr.  Livingstone  had  found  their  own  society 
far  from  satisfying. 

Greatly  encouraged,  Livingstone  continued, 
with  enthusiasm: 

"And  that  wireless  man  said,"  he  added, 
"that  with  the  launch  we  can  get  there  in  half 
an  hour.  We  might  run  down  after  dinner." 

He  turned  to  Marshall. 

"Will  you  join  us,  Mr.  Consul?"  he  asked, 
"and  dine  with  us,  first?" 

Marshall  accepted  with  genuine  pleasure.  It 
had  been  many  months  since  he  had  sat  at  table 
v,rith  his  own  people.  But  he  shook  his  head 
doubtfully. 

"I  was  wondering  about  Las  Bocas,"  he  ex 
plained,  "  if  your  going  there  might  not  get  you 
in  trouble  at  the  next  port.  With  a  yacht,  I 
think  it  is  different,  but  Las  Bocas  is  under 
quarantine 

There  was  a  chorus  of  exclamations. 

"It's  not  serious,"  Marshall  explained. 
"  There  was  bubonic  plague  there,  or  something 
like  it.  You  would  be  in  no  danger  from  that. 
It  is  only  that  you  might  be  held  up  by  the 
regulations.  Passenger  steamers  can't  land  any 
one  who  has  been  there  at  any  other  port  of  the 

105 


THE  CONSUL 

West  Indies.  The  English  are  especially  strict. 
The  Royal  Mail  won't  even  receive  any  one  on 
board  here  without  a  certificate  from  the  Eng 
lish  consul  saying  he  has  not  visited  Las  Bocas. 
For  an  American  they  would  require  the  same 
guarantee  from  me.  But  I  don't  think  the 
regulations  extend  to  yachts.  I  will  inquire. 
I  don't  wish  to  deprive  you  of  any  of  the  many 
pleasures  of  Porto  Banos,"  he  added,  smiling, 
"but  if  you  were  refused  a  landing  at  your 
next  port  I  would  blame  myself." 

"It's  all  right,"  declared  Livingstone  de 
cidedly.  "It's  just  as  you  say;  yachts  and  war 
ships  are  exempt.  Besides,  I  carry  my  own 
doctor,  and  if  he  won't  give  us  a  clean  bill  of 
health,  I'll  make  him  walk  the  plank.  At  eight, 
then,  at  dinner.  I'll  send  the  cutter  for  you. 
I  can't  give  you  a  salute,  Mr.  Consul,  but  you 
shall  have  all  the  side  boys  I  can  muster." 

Those  from  the  yacht  parted  from  their 
consul  in  the  most  friendly  spirit. 

"I  think  he's  charming!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Cairns.  "And  did  you  notice  his  novels? 
They  were  in  every  language.  It  must  be 
terribly  lonely  down  here,  for  a  man  like  that." 

"He's  the  first  of  our  consuls  we've  met  on 
this  trip,"  growled  her  father,  "that  we've 
caught  sober." 

"Sober!"  exclaimed  his  wife  indignantly. 
1 06 


THE  CONSUL 

"He's   one  of  the   Marshalls   of  Vermont.     I 
asked  him." 

"I  wonder,"  mused  Hanley,  "how  much  the 
place  is  worth?  Hamilton,  one  of  the  new  sena 
tors,  has  been  deviling  the  life  out  of  me  to 
send  his  son  somewhere.  Says  if  he  stays  in 
Washington  he'll  disgrace  the  family.  I  should 
think  this  place  would  drive  any  man  to  drink 
himself  to  death  in  three  months,  and  young 
Hamilton,  from  what  I've  seen  of  him,  ought  to 
be  able  to  do  it  in  a  week.  That  would  leave 
the  place  open  for  the  next  man." 

''There's  a  postmaster  in  my  State  thinks  he 
carried  it."  The  senator  smiled  grimly.  "He 
has  consumption,  and  wants  us  to  give  him  a 
consulship  in  the  tropics.  I'll  tell  him  I've  seen 
Porto  Banos,  and  that  it's  just  the  place  for  him." 

The  senator's  pleasantry  was  not  well  received. 
But  Miss  Cairns  alone  had  the  temerity  to  speak 
of  what  the  others  were  thinking. 

"What  would  become  of  Mr.  Marshall?"  she 
asked. 

The  senator  smiled  tolerantly. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  was  thinking  of  Mr. 
Marshall,"  he  said.  "I  can't  recall  anything 
he  has  done  for  this  administration.  You  see, 
Miss  Cairns,"  he  explained,  in  the  tone  of  one 
addressing  a  small  child,  "Marshall  has  been 
abroad  now  for  forty  years,  at  the  expense  of 

107 


THE  CONSUL 

the  taxpayers.  Some  of  us  think  men  who  have 
lived  that  long  on  their  fellow-countrymen  had 
better  come  home  and  get  to  work." 

Livingstone  nodded  solemnly  in  assent.  He 
did  not  wish  a  post  abroad  at  the  expense  of 
the  taxpayers.  He  was  willing  to  pay  for  it. 
And  then,  with  "ex-Minister"  on  his  visiting 
cards,  and  a  sense  of  duty  well  performed,  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  he  could  join  the  other  ex 
patriates  in  Paris. 

Just  before  dinner,  the  cruiser  Raleigh  having 
discovered  the  whereabouts  of  the  Serapis  by 
wireless,  entered  the  harbor,  and  Admiral  Hardy 
came  to  the  yacht  to  call  upon  the  senator,  in 
whose  behalf  he  had  been  scouring  the  Carib 
bean  Seas.  Having  paid  his  respects  to  that 
personage,  the  admiral  fell  boisterously  upon 
Marshall. 

The  two  old  gentlemen  were  friends  of  many 
years.  They  had  met,  officially  and  unofficially, 
in  many  strange  parts  of  the  world.  To  each 
the  chance  reunion  was  a  piece  of  tremen 
dous  good  fortune.  And  throughout  dinner  the 
guests  of  Livingstone,  already  bored  with  each 
other,  found  in  them  and  their  talk  of  former 
days  new  and  delightful  entertainment.  So 
much  so  that  when,  Marshall  having  assured 
them  that  the  local  quarantine  regulations  did 
not  extend  to  a  yacht,  the  men  departed  for 

1 08 


THE  CONSUL 

Las  Bocas,  the  women  insisted  that  he  and  the 
admiral  remain  behind. 

It  was  for  Marshall  a  wondrous  evening.  To 
foregather  with  his  old  friend,  whom  he  had 
known  since  Hardy  was  a  mad  midshipman,  to 
sit  at  the  feet  of  his  own  charming  country 
women,  to  listen  to  their  soft,  modulated  laugh 
ter,  to  note  how  quickly  they  saw  that  to  him 
the  evening  was  a  great  event,  and  with  what 
tact  each  contributed  to  make  it  the  more 
memorable;  all  served  to  wipe  out  the  months 
of  bitter  loneliness,  the  stigma  of  failure,  the 
sense  of  undeserved  neglect.  In  the  moonlight, 
on  the  cool  quarter-deck,  they  sat,  in  a  half- 
circle,  each  of  the  two  friends  telling  tales  out 
of  school,  tales  of  which  the  other  was  the  hero 
or  the  victim,  "inside"  stories  of  great  occasions, 
ceremonies,  bombardments,  unrecorded  "shirt 
sleeve"  diplomacy. 

Hardy  had  helped  to  open  the  Suez  Canal. 
Marshall  had  assisted  the  Queen  of  Madagas 
car  to  escape  from  the  French  invaders.  On 
the  Barbary  Coast  Hardy  had  chased  pirates. 
In  Edinburgh  Marshall  had  played  chess  with 
Carlyle.  He  had  seen  Paris  in  mourning  in  the 
days  of  the  siege,  Paris  in  terror  in  the  days 
of  the  Commune;  he  had  known  Garibaldi, 
Gambetta,  the  younger  Dumas,  the  creator  of 
Pickwick. 

109 


THE  CONSUL 

"Do  you  remember  that  time  in  Tangier," 
the  admiral  urged,  "when  I  was  a  midshipman, 
and  got  into  the  bashaw's  harem?" 

"Do  you  remember  how  I  got  you  out?" 
Marshall  replied  grimly. 

"And,"  demanded  Hardy,  "do  you  remember 
when  Adelina  Patti  paid  a  visit  to  the  Kearsarge 
at  Marseilles  in  '65 — George  Dewey  was  our 
second  officer — and  you  were  bowing  and  back 
ing  away  from  her,  and  you  backed  into  an  open 
hatch,  and  she  said — my  French  isn't  up  to  it 
— what  was  it  she  said?" 

"I  didn't  hear  it,"  said  Marshall;  "I  was  too 
far  down  the  hatch." 

"Do  you  mean  the  old  Kearsarge?"  asked 
Mrs.  Cairns.  "Were  you  in  the  service  then, 
Mr.  Marshall?" 

With  loyal  pride  in  his  friend,  the  admiral 
answered  for  him: 

"He  was  our  consul-general  at  Marseilles!" 

There  was  an  uncomfortable  moment.  Even 
those  denied  imagination  could  not  escape  the 
contrast,  could  see  in  their  mind's  eye  the  great 
harbor  of  Marseilles,  crowded  with  the  shipping 
of  the  world,  surrounding  it  the  beautiful  city, 
the  rival  of  Paris  to  the  north,  and  on  the  battle 
ship  the  young  consul-general  making  his  bow 
to  the  young  Empress  of  Song.  And  now, 
before  their  actual  eyes,  they  saw  the  village 

no 


THE  CONSUL 

of  Porto  Banos,  a  black  streak  in  the  night,  a 
row  of  mud  shacks,  at  the  end  of  the  wharf  a 
single  lantern  yellow  in  the  clear  moonlight. 

Later  in  the  evening  Miss  Cairns  led  the 
admiral  to  one  side. 

"Admiral,"  she  began  eagerly,  "tell  me  about 
your  friend.  Why  is  he  here?  Why  don't 
they  give  him  a  place  worthy  of  him?  I've 
seen  many  of  our  representatives  abroad,  and 
I  know  we  cannot  afford  to  waste  men  like  that." 
The  girl  exclaimed  indignantly:  "He's  one  of 
the  most  interesting  men  I've  ever  met!  He's 
lived  everywhere,  known  every  one.  He's  a 
distinguished  man,  a  cultivated  man;  even  I 
can  see  he  knows  his  work,  that  he's  a  diplomat, 
born,  trained,  that  he's " 

The  admiral  interrupted  with  a  growl. 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  ME  about  Henry," 
he  protested.  "I've  known  Henry  twenty-five 
years.  If  Henry  got  his  deserts,"  he  exclaimed 
hotly,  "he  wouldn't  be  a  consul  on  this  coral 
reef;  he'd  be  a  minister  in  Europe.  Look  at 
me !  We're  the  same  age.  We  started  together. 
When  Lincoln  sent  him  to  Morocco  as  consul, 
he  signed  my  commission  as  a  midshipman. 
Now  I'm  an  admiral.  Henry  has  twice  my 
brains  and  he's  been  a  consul-general,  and  he's 
here,  back  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder!" 

"Why?"  demanded  the  girl, 
in 


THE  CONSUL 

"Because  the  navy  is  a  service  and  the  con 
sular  service  isn't  a  service.  Men  like  Senator 
Hanley  use  it  to  pay  their  debts.  While  Henry's 
been  serving  his  country  abroad,  he's  lost  his 
friends,  lost  his  'pull.'  Those  politicians  up  at 
Washington  have  no  use  for  him.  They  don't 
consider  that  a  consul  like  Henry  can  make  a 
million  dollars  for  his  countrymen.  He  can 
keep  them  from  shipping  goods  where  there's 
no  market,  show  them  where  there  is  a  market." 
The  admiral  snorted  contemptuously.  "You 
don't  have  to  tell  ME  the  value  of  a  good  consul. 
But  those  politicians  don't  consider  that.  They 
only  see  that  he  has  a  job  worth  a  few  hundred 
dollars,  and  they  want  it,  and  if  he  hasn't  other 
politicians  to  protect  him,  they'll  take  it." 

The  girl  raised  her  head. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  the  senator?"  she 
asked.  "Tell  him  you've  known  him  for  years, 
that- 

"Glad  to  do  it !"  exclaimed  the  admiral  heart 
ily.  "It  won't  be  the  first  time.  But  Henry 
mustn't  know.  He's  too  confoundedly  touchy. 
He  hates  the  idea  of  influence,  hates  men  like 
Hanley,  who  abuse  it.  If  he  thought  anything 
was  given  to  him  except  on  his  merits,  he 
wouldn't  take  it." 

'Then   we  won't   tell   him,"   said   the   girl. 
For  a  moment  she  hesitated. 

112 


THE  CONSUL 

"If  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Hanley,"  she  asked,  "told 
him  what  I  learned  to-night  of  Mr.  Marshall, 
"would  it  have  any  effect?" 

"Don't  know  how  it  will  affect  Hanley," 
said  the  sailor,  "but  if  you  asked  me  to  make  any 
body  a  consul-general,  I'd  make  him  an  ambas 
sador." 

Later  in  the  evening  Hanley  and  Livingstone 
were  seated  alone  on  deck.  The  visit  to  Las 
Bocas  had  not  proved  amusing,  but,  much  to 
Livingstone's  relief,  his  honored  guest  was  now 
in  good-humor.  He  took  his  cigar  from  his 
lips,  only  to  sip  at  a  long  cool  drink.  He  was 
in  a  mood  flatteringly  confidential  and  com 
municative. 

"People  have  the  strangest  idea  of  what  I 
can  do  for  them,"  he  laughed.  It  was  his  pose 
to  pretend  he  was  without  authority.  "They 
believe  I've  only  to  wave  a  wand,  and  get  them 
anything  they  want.  I  thought  I'd  be  safe 
from  them  on  board  a  yacht." 

Livingstone,  in  ignorance  of  what  was  coming, 
squirmed  apprehensively. 

"But  it  seems,"  the  senator  went  on,  "I'm  at 
the  mercy  of  a  conspiracy.  The  women  folk 
want  me  to  do  something  for  this  fellow  Mar 
shall.  If  they  had  their  way,  they'd  send  him 
to  the  Court  of  St.  James.  And  old  Hardy, 
too,  tackled  me  about  him.  So  did  Miss  Cairns- 


THE  CONSUL 

And  then  Marshall  himself  got  me  behind  the 
wheel-house,  and  I  thought  he  was  going  to 
tell  me  how  good  he  was,  too !  But  he  didn't." 

As  though  the  joke  were  on  himself,  the  sena 
tor  laughed  appreciatively. 

"Told  me,  instead,  that  Hardy  ought  to  be  a 
vice-admiral." 

Livingstone,  also,  laughed,  with  the  satisfied 
air  of  one  who  cannot  be  tricked. 

"They  fixed  it  up  between  them,"  he  ex 
plained,  "each  was  to  put  in  a  good  word  for 
the  other."  He  nodded  eagerly.  "That's  what 
/  think." 

There  were  moments  during  the  cruise  when 
Senator  Hanley  would  have  found  relief  in 
dropping  his  host  overboard.  With  mock  def 
erence,  the  older  man  inclined  his  head. 

"That's  what  you  think,  is  it?"  he  asked. 
"Livingstone,"  he  added,  "you  certainly  are  a 
great  judge  of  men!" 

The  next  morning,  old  man  Marshall  woke 
with  a  lightness  at  his  heart  that  had  been  long 
absent.  For  a  moment,  conscious  only  that  he 
was  happy,  he  lay  between  sleep  and  waking, 
frowning  up  at  his  canopy  of  mosquito  net, 
trying  to  realize  what  change  had  come  to  him. 
Then  he  remembered.  His  old  friend  had 
returned.  New  friends  had  come  into  his  life 
and  welcomed  him  kindly.  He  was  no  longer 

114 


THE  CONSUL 

lonely.  As  eager  as  a  boy,  he  ran  to  the  window. 
He  had  not  been  dreaming.  In  the  harbor  lay 
the  pretty  yacht,  the  stately,  white-hulled  war 
ship.  The  flag  that  drooped  from  the  stern  of 
each  caused  his  throat  to  tighten,  brought  warm 
tears  to  his  eyes,  fresh  resolve  to  his  discouraged, 
troubled  spirit.  When  he  knelt  beside  his  bed, 
his  heart  poured  out  his  thanks  in  gratitude  and 
gladness. 

While  he  was  dressing,  a  blue- jacket  brought 
a  note  from  the  admiral.  It  invited  him  to  tea 
on  board  the  war-ship,  with  the  guests  of  the 
Serapis.  His  old  friend  added  that  he  was 
coming  to  lunch  with  his  consul,  and  wanted 
time  reserved  for  a  long  talk.  The  consul  agreed 
gladly.  He  was  in  holiday  humor.  The  day 
promised  to  repeat  the  good  moments  of  the 
night  previous. 

At  nine  o'clock,  through  the  open  door  of  the 
consulate,  Marshall  saw  Aiken,  the  wireless 
operator,  signalling  from  the  wharf  excitedly  to 
the  yacht,  and  a  boat  leave  the  ship  and  return. 
Almost  immediately  the  launch,  carrying  several 
passengers,  again  made  the  trip  shoreward. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Senator  Hanley,  Miss 
Cairns,  and  Livingstone  came  up  the  water 
front,  and  entering  the  consulate,  seated  them 
selves  around  Marshall's  desk.  Livingstone  was 
sunk  in  melancholy.  The  senator,  on  the  con- 

115 


THE  CONSUL 

trary,  was  smiling  broadly.  His  manner  was 
one  of  distinct  relief.  He  greeted  the  consul 
with  hearty  good-humor. 

"I'm  ordered  home!"  he  announced  gleefully. 
Then,  remembering  the  presence  of  Livingstone, 
he  hastened  to  add:  "I  needn't  say  how  sorry 
I  am  to  give  up  my  yachting  trip,  but  orders  are 
orders.  The  President,"  he  explained  to  Mar 
shall,  "cables  me  this  morning  to  come  back  and 
take  my  coat  off." 

The  prospect,  as  a  change  from  playing  bridge 
on  a  pleasure  boat,  seemed  far  from  depressing 
him. 

"  Those  filibusters  in  the  Senate,"  he  continued 
genially,  "are  making  trouble  again.  They 
think  they've  got  me  out  of  the  way  for  another 
month,  but  they'll  find  they're  wrong.  When 
that  bill  comes  up,  they'll  find  me  at  the  old 
stand  and  ready  for  business!"  Marshall  did 
not  attempt  to  conceal  his  personal  disappoint 
ment. 

"I  am  so  sorry  you  are  leaving,"  he  said; 
"selfishly  sorry,  I  mean.  I'd  hoped  you  all 
would  be  here  for  several  days." 

He  looked  inquiringly  toward  Livingstone. 

"I  understood  the  Serapis  was  disabled," 
he  explained. 

"She  is,"  answered  Hanley.  "So's  the  Ra- 
leigb.  At  a  pinch,  the  admiral  might  have 

116 


THE  CONSUL 

stretched  the  regulations  and  carried  me  to 
Jamaica,  but  the  Raleigh's  engines  are  knocked 
about  too.  I've  got  to  reach  Kingston  Thurs 
day.  The  German  boat  leaves  there  Thursday 
for  New  York.  At  first  it  looked  as  though  I 
couldn't  do  it,  but  we  find  that  the  Royal  Mail 
is  due  to-day,  and  she  can  get  to  Kingston 
Wednesday  night.  It's  a  great  piece  of  luck. 
I  wouldn't  bother  you  with  my  troubles,"  the 
senator  explained  pleasantly,  "but  the  agent 
of  the  Royal  Mail  here  won't  sell  me  a  ticket 
until  you've  put  your  seal  to  this." 

He  extended  a  piece  of  printed  paper. 

As  Hanley  had  been  talking,  the  face  of  the 
consul  had  grown  grave.  He  accepted  the 
paper,  but  did  not  look  at  it.  Instead,  he 
regarded  the  senator  with  troubled  eyes.  When 
he  spoke,  his  tone  was  one  of  genuine  concern. 

"It  is  most  unfortunate,"  he  said.  "But  I 
am  afraid  the  Royal  Mail  will  not  take  you  on 
board.  Because  of  Las  Bocas,"  he  explained. 
"  If  we  had  only  known  !"  he  added  remorsefully. 
"It  is  most  unfortunate." 

"Because  of  Las  Bocas?"  echoed  Hanley. 
"You  don't  mean  they'll  refuse  to  take  me  to 
Jamaica  because  I  spent  half  an  hour  at  the 
end  of  a  wharf  listening  to  a  squeaky  gramo 
phone?" 

"The  trouble,"  explained  Marshall,  "is  this: 
117 


THE  CONSUL 

if  they  carried  you,  all  the  other  passengers 
would  be  held  in  quarantine  for  ten  days,  and 
there  are  fines  to  pay,  and  there  would  be 
difficulties  over  the  mails.  But,"  he  added 
hopefully,  "maybe  the  regulations  have  been 
altered.  I  will  see  her  captain,  and  tell  him ' 

"See  her  captain!"  objected  Hanley.  "Why 
see  the  captain?  He  doesn't  know  I've  been 
to  that  place.  Why  tell  him?  All  I  need  is  a 
clean  bill  of  health  from  you.  That's  all  HE 
wants.  You  have  only  to  sign  that  paper." 

Marshall  regarded  the  senator  with  surprise. 

"But  I  can't,"  he  said. 

"You  can't?     Why  not?" 

"Because  it  certifies  to  the  fact  that  you  have 
not  visited  Las  Bocas.  Unfortunately,  you  have 
visited  Las  Bocas." 

The  senator  had  been  walking  up  and  down 
the  room.  Now  he  seated  himself,  and  stared 
at  Marshall  curiously. 

"It's  like  this,  Mr.  Marshall,"  he  began 
quietly.  "The  President  desires  my  presence 
in  Washington,  thinks  I  can  be  of  some  use  to 
him  there  in  helping  carry  out  certain  party 
measures — measures  to  which  he  pledged  him 
self  before  his  election.  Down  here,  a  British 
steamship  line  has  laid  down  local  rules  which, 
in  my  case  anyway,  are  ridiculous.  The  ques 
tion  is,  are  you  going  to  be  bound  by  the  red 

118 


THE  CONSUL 

tape  of  a  ha'penny  British  colony,  or  by  your 
oath  to  the  President  of  the  United  States?" 

The  sophistry  amused  Marshall.  He  smiled 
rjood-natureclly  and  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid,  Senator,"  he  said,  "that  way  of 
putting  it  is  hardly  fair.  Unfortunately,  the 
question  is  one  of  fact.  I  will  explain  to  the 
captain " 

"You  will  explain  nothing  to  the  captain!" 
interrupted  Hanley.  "This  is  a  matter  which 
concerns  no  one  but  our  two  selves.  I  am  not 
asking  favors  of  steamboat  captains.  I  am 
asking  an  American  consul  to  assist  an  American 
citizen  in  trouble,  and,"  he  added,  with  heavy 
sarcasm,  "incidentally,  to  carry  out  the  wishes 
of  his  President." 

Marshall  regarded  the  senator  with  an  expres 
sion  of  both  surprise  and  disbelief. 

"Are  you  asking  me  to  put  my  name  to  what 
is  not  so?"  he  said.  "Are  you  serious?" 

"That  paper,  Mr.  Marshall,"  returned  Hanley 
steadily,  "is  a  mere  form,  a  piece  of  red  tape. 
There's  no  more  danger  of  my  carrying  the 
plague  to  Jamaica  than  of  my  carrying  a  dyna 
mite  bomb.  You  know  that." 

"  I  do  know  that,"  assented  Marshall  heartily. 
"I  appreciate  your  position,  and  I  regret  it 
exceedingly.  You  are  the  innocent  victim  of  a 
regulation  which  is  a  wise  regulation,  but  which 

119 


THE  CONSUL 

is  most  unfair  to  you.  My  own  position,"  he 
added,  "is  not  important,  but  you  can  believe 
me,  it  is  not  easy.  It  is  certainly  no  pleasure 
for  me  to  be  unable  to  help  you." 

Hanley  was  leaning  forward,  his  hands  on  his 
knees,  his  eyes  watching  Marshall  closely. 

"Then  you  refuse?"  he  said.     "Why?" 

Marshall  regarded  the  senator  steadily.  His 
manner  was  untroubled.  The  look  he  turned 
upon  Hanley  was  one  of  grave  disapproval. 

"You  know  why,"  he  answered  quietly.  "It 
is  impossible." 

In  sudden  anger  Hanley  rose.  Marshall,  who 
had  been  seated  behind  his  desk,  also  rose. 
For  a  moment,  in  silence,  the  two  men  con 
fronted  each  other.  Then  Hanley  spoke;  his 
tone  was  harsh  and  threatening. 

"Then  I  am  to  understand,"  he  exclaimed, 
"that  you  refuse  to  carry  out  the  wishes  of  a 
United  States  Senator  and  of  the  President  of 
the  United  States?" 

In  front  of  Marshall,  on  his  desk,  was  the 
little  iron  stamp  of  the  consulate.  Protect- 
ingly,  almost  caressingly,  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  it. 

"I  refuse,"  he  corrected,  "to  place  the  seal  of 
this  consulate  on  a  lie." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Miss  Cairns, 
unwilling  to  remain,  and  unable  to  withdraw, 

1 20 


'Then  I  am  to  understand,"  he  exclaimed,  "that  you  re 
fuse  to  carry  out  the  wishes  of  a  United  States  Sena 
tor  and  of  the  President  of  the  United  States?" 


THE  CONSUL 

clasped  her  hands  unhappily  and  stared  at  the 
floor.  Livingstone  exclaimed  in  indignant  pro 
test.  Hanley  moved  a  step  nearer  and,  to 
emphasize  what  he  said,  tapped  his  knuckles 
on  the  desk.  With  the  air  of  one  confident  of 
his  advantage,  he  spoke  slowly  and  softly. 

"Do  you  appreciate,"  he  asked,  "that,  while 
you  may  be  of  some  importance  down  here  in 
this  fever  swamp,  in  Washington  I  am  supposed 
to  carry  some  weight?  Do  you  appreciate  that 
I  am  a  senator  from  a  State  that  numbers  four 
millions  of  people,  and  that  you  are  preventing 
me  from  serving  those  people?" 

Marshall  inclined  his  head  gravely  and 
politely. 

"And  I  want  you  to  appreciate,"  he  said, 
"that  while  I  have  no  weight  at  Washington, 
in  this  fever  swamp  I  have  the  honor  to  represent 
eighty  millions  of  people,  and  as  long  as  that 
consular  sign  is  over  my  door  I  don't  intend  to 
prostitute  it  for  you,  or  the  President  of  the 
United  States,  or  any  one  of  those  eighty 
millions." 

Of  the  two  men,  the  first  to  lower  his  eyes 
was  Hanley.  He  laughed  shortly,  and  walked 
to  the  door.  There  he  turned,  and  indifferently, 
as  though  the  incident  no  longer  interested 
him,  drew  out  his  watch. 

"Mr.  Marshall,"  he  said,  "if  the  cable  is 
121 


THE  CONSUL 

working,  I'll  take  your  tin  sign  away  from  you 
by  sunset." 

For  one  of  Marshall's  traditions,  to  such  a 
speech  there  was  no  answer  save  silence.  He 
bowed,  and,  apparently  serene  and  undismayed, 
resumed  his  seat.  From  the  contest,  judging 
from  the  manner  of  each,  it  was  Marshall,  not 
Hanley,  who  had  emerged  victorious. 

But  Miss  Cairns  was  not  deceived.  Under 
the  unexpected  blow,  Marshall  had  turned 
older.  His  clear  blue  eyes  had  grown  less  alert, 
his  broad  shoulders  seemed  to  stoop.  In  sym 
pathy,  her  own  eyes  filled  with  sudden  tears. 

"What  will  you  do?"  she  whispered. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,"  said  Marshall 
simply.  "  I  should  have  liked  to  have  resigned. 
It's  a  prettier  finish.  After  forty  years — to  be 
dismissed  by  cable  is — it's  a  poor  way  of  ending 
it." 

Miss  Cairns  rose  and  walked  to  the  door. 
There  she  turned  and  looked  back. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said.  And  both  under 
stood  that  in  saying  no  more  than  that  she  had 
best  shown  her  sympathy. 

An  hour  later  the  sympathy  of  Admiral  Hardy 
was  expressed  more  directly. 

"  If  he  comes  on  board  my  ship,"  roared  that 
gentleman,  "  I'll  push  him  down  an  ammunition 
hoist  and  break  his  damned  neck!" 

122 


THE  CONSUL 

Marshall  laughed  delightedly.  The  loyalty 
of  his  old  friend  was  never  so  welcome. 

"You'll  treat  him  with  every  courtesy,"  he 
said.  "The  only  satisfaction  he  gets  out  of 
this  is  to  see  that  he  has  hurt  me.  We  will  not 
give  him  that  satisfaction." 

But  Marshall  found  that  to  conceal  his  wound 
was  more  difficult  than  he  had  anticipated. 
When,  at  tea  time,  on  the  deck  of  the  war-ship, 
he  again  met  Senator  Hanley  and  the  guests  of 
the  Serapis,  he  could  not  forget  that  his  career 
had  come  to  an  end.  There  was  much  to  re 
mind  him  that  this  was  so.  He  was  made  aware 
of  it  by  the  sad,  sympathetic  glances  of  the 
women;  by  their  tactful  courtesies;  by  the  fact 
that  Livingstone,  anxious  to  propitiate  Hanley, 
treated  him  rudely;  by  the  sight  of  the  young 
officers,  each  just  starting  upon  a  career  of 
honor,  and  possible  glory,  as  his  career  ended 
in  humiliation;  arid  by  the  big  war-ship  herself, 
that  recalled  certain  crises  when  he  had  only 
to  press  a  button  and  war-ships  had  come  at 
his  bidding. 

At  five  o'clock  there  was  an  awkward  moment. 
The  Royal  Mail  boat,  having  taken  on  her 
cargo,  passed  out  of  the  harbor  on  her  way  to 
Jamaica,  and  dipped  her  colors.  Senator  Han 
ley,  abandoned  to  his  fate,  observed  her  de 
parture  in  silence. 

123 


THE  CONSUL 

Livingstone,  hovering  at  his  side,  asked  sym 
pathetically  : 

"Have  they  answered  your  cable,  sir?" 

"They  have/'  said  Hanley  gruffly. 

"Was  it — was  it  satisfactory?"  pursued  the 
diplomat. 

"It  was"  said  the  senator,  with  emphasis. 

Far  from  discouraged,  Livingstone  continued 
his  inquiries. 

"And  when,"  he  asked  eagerly,  "are  you 
going  to  tell  him?" 

"Now!"  said  the  senator. 

The  guests  were  leaving  the  ship.  When  all 
were  seated  in  the  admiral's  steam  launch,  the 
admiral  descended  the  accommodation  ladder 
and  himself  picked  up  the  tiller  ropes. 

"Mr.  Marshall,"  he  called,  "when  I  bring  the 
launch  broadside  to  the  ship  and  stop  her,  you 
will  stand  ready  to  receive  the  consul's  sa 
lute." 

Involuntarily,  Marshall  uttered  an  exclama 
tion  of  protest.  He  had  forgotten  that  on 
leaving  the  war-ship,  as  consul,  he  was  entitled 
to  seven  guns.  Had  he  remembered,  he  would 
have  insisted  that  the  ceremony  be  omitted. 
He  knew  that  the  admiral  wished  to  show  his 
loyalty,  knew  that  his  old  friend  was  now  paying 
him  this  honor  only  as  a  rebuke  to  Hanley. 
But  the  ceremony  was  no  longer  an  honor. 

124 


THE  CONSUL 

Hanley  had  made  of  it  a  mockery.  It  served 
only  to  emphasize  what  had  been  taken  from 
him.  But,  without  a  scene,  it  now  was  too  late 
to  avoid  it.  The  first  of  the  seven  guns  had 
roared  from  the  bow,  and,  as  often  he  had  stood 
before,  as  never  he  would  so  stand  again,  Mar 
shall  took  his  place  at  the  gangway  of  the 
launch.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  flag,  his 
gray  head  was  uncovered,  his  hat  was  pressed 
above  his  heart. 

For  the  first  time  since  Hanley  had  left  the 
consulate,  he  fell  into  sudden  terror  lest  he 
might  give  way  to  his  emotions.  Indignant  at 
the  thought,  he  held  himself  erect.  His  face 
was  set  like  a  mask,  his  eyes  were  untroubled. 
He  was  determined  they  should  not  see  that  he 
was  suffering. 

Another  gun  spat  out  a  burst  of  white  smoke, 
a  stab  of  flame.  There  was  an  echoing  roar. 
Another  and  another  followed.  Marshall 
counted  seven,  and  then,  with  a  bow  to  the 
admiral,  backed  from  the  gangway. 

And  then  another  gun  shattered  the  hot, 
heavy  silence.  Marshall,  confused,  embar 
rassed,  assuming  he  had  counted  wrong,  hastily 
returned  to  his  place.  But  again  before  he 
could  leave  it,  in  savage  haste  a  ninth  gun 
roared  out  its  greeting.  He  could  not  still  be 
mistaken.  He  turned  appealingly  to  his  friend. 

125 


THE  CONSUL 

The  eyes  of  the  admiral  were  fixed  upon  the 
war-ship.  Again  a  gun  shattered  the  silence. 
Was  it  a  jest?  Were  they  laughing  at  him? 
Marshall  flushed  miserably.  He  gave  a  swift 
glance  toward  the  others.  They  were  smiling. 
Then  it  was  a  jest.  Behind  his  back,  something 
of  which  they  all  were  cognizant  was  going  for 
ward.  The  face  of  Livingstone  alone  betrayed 
a  like  bewilderment  to  his  own.  But  the 
others,  who  knew,  were  mocking  him. 

For  the  thirteenth  time  a  gun  shook  the 
brooding  swamp  land  of  Porto  Banos.  And 
then,  and  not  until  then,  did  the  flag  crawl 
slowly  from  the  mast-head.  Mary  Cairns  broke 
the  tenseness  by  bursting  into  tears.  But 
Marshall  saw  that  every  one  else,  save  she  and 
Livingstone,  were  still  smiling.  Even  the  blue 
jackets  in  charge  of  the  launch  were  grinning 
at  him.  He  was  beset  by  smiling  faces.  And 
then  from  the  war-ship,  unchecked,  came, 
against  all  regulations,  three  long,  splendid 
cheers. 

Marshall  felt  his  lips  quivering,  the  warm 
tears  forcing  their  way  to  his  eyes.  He  turned 
beseechingly  to  his  friend.  His  voice  trembled. 

"Charles,"  he  begged,  "are  they  laughing  at 
me?" 

Eagerly,  before  the  other  would  answer, 
Senator  Hanley  tossed  his  cigar  into  the  water 

126 


THE  CONSUL 

and,  scrambling   forward,   seized  Marshall   by 
the  hand. 

"Mr.  Marshall,"  he  cried,  "our  President  has 
great  faith  in  Abraham  Lincoln's  judgment  of 
men.  And  this  salute  means  that  this  morning 
he  appointed  you  our  new  minister  to  The 
Hague.  I'm  one  of  those  politicians  who  keeps 
his  word.  I  told  you  I'd  take  your  tin  sign  away 
from  you  by  sunset.  I've  done  it!" 


127 


THE  NATURE  FAKER 

RICHARD  HERRICK  was  a  young  man  with  a 
gentle  disposition,  much  money,  and  no  sense 
of  humor.  His  object  in  life  was  to  marry  Miss 
Catherweight.  For  three  years  she  had  tried 
to  persuade  him  this  could  not  be,  and  finally, 
in  order  to  convince  him,  married  some  one  else. 
When  the  woman  he  loves  marries  another 
man,  the  rejected  one  is  popularly  supposed  to 
take  to  drink  or  to  foreign  travel.  Statistics 
show  that,  instead,  he  instantly  falls  in  love 
with  the  best  friend  of  the  girl  who  refused 
him.  But,  as  Herrick  truly  loved  Miss  Cather 
weight,  he  could  not  worship  any  other  woman, 
and  so  he  became  a  lover  of  nature.  Nature, 
he  assured  his  men  friends,  does  not  disappoint 
you.  The  more  thought,  care,  affection  you 
give  to  nature,  the  more  she  gives  you  in  return, 
and  while,  so  he  admitted,  in  wooing  nature 
there  are  no  great  moments,  there  are  no  heart 
aches.  Jackson,  one  of  the  men  friends,  and  of 
a  frivolous  disposition,  said  that  he  also  could 
admire  a  landscape,  but  he  would  rather  look 
at  the  beautiful  eyes  of  a  girl  he  knew  than  at 

128 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

the  Lakes  of  Killarney,  with  a  full  moon,  a 
setting  sun,  and  the  aurora  borealis  for  a  back 
ground.  Herrick  suggested  that,  while  the 
beautiful  eyes  might  seek  those  of  another  man, 
the  Lakes  of  Killarney  would  always  remain 
where  you  could  find  them. 

Herrick  pursued  his  new  love  in  Connecticut 
on  an  abandoned  farm  which  he  converted  into 
a  "model"  one.  On  it  he  established  model 
dairies  and  model  incubators.  He  laid  out  old- 
fashioned  gardens,  sunken  gardens,  Italian  gar 
dens,  landscape  gardens,  and  a  game  preserve. 
The  game  preserve  was  his  own  especial  care 
and  pleasure.  It  consisted  of  two  hundred 
acres  of  dense  forest  and  hills  and  ridges  of 
rock.  It  was  filled  with  mysterious  caves,  deep 
chasms,  tiny  gurgling  streams,  nestling  springs, 
and  wild  laurel.  It  was  barricaded  with  fallen 
tree-trunks  and  moss-covered  rocks  that  had 
never  felt  the  foot  of  man  since  that  foot  had 
worn  a  moccasin.  Around  the  preserve  was  a 
high  fence  stout  enough  to  keep  poachers  on 
the  outside  and  to  persuade  the  wild  animals 
that  inhabited  it  to  linger  on  the  inside.  These 
wild  animals  were  squirrels,  rabbits,  and  rac 
coons.  Every  day,  in  sunshine  or  in  rain,  en 
tering  through  a  private  gate,  Herrick  would 
explore  this  holy  of  holies.  For  such  vermin  as 
would  destroy  the  gentler  animals  he  carried  a 

129 


THE  NATURE  FAKER 

gun.  But  it  was  turned  only  on  those  that 
preyed  upon  his  favorites.  For  hours  he  would 
climb  through  this  wilderness,  or,  seated  on  a 
rock,  watch  a  bluebird  building  her  nest  or  a 
squirrel  laying  in  rations  against  the  coming  of 
the  snow.  In  time  he  grew  to  think  he  knew 
and  understood  the  inhabitants  of  this  wild 
place  of  which  he  was  the  overlord.  He  looked 
upon  them  not  as  his  tenants  but  as  his  guests. 
And  when  they  fled  from  him  in  terror  to  caves 
and  hollow  tree-trunks,  he  wished  he  might  call 
them  back  and  explain  he  was  their  friend, 
that  it  was  due  to  him  they  lived  in  peace.  He 
was  glad  they  were  happy.  He  was  glad  it 
was  through  him  that,  undisturbed,  they  could 
live  the  simple  life. 

His  fall  came  through  ambition.  Herrick 
himself  attributed  it  to  his  too  great  devotion  to 
nature  and  nature's  children.  Jackson,  he  of 
the  frivolous  mind,  attributed  it  to  the  fact  that 
any  man  is  sure  to  come  to  grief  who  turns  from 
the  worship  of  God's  noblest  handiwork,  by 
which  Jackson  meant  woman,  to  worship  chip 
munks  and  Plymouth  Rock  hens. 

One  night  Jackson  lured  Herrick  into  New 
York  to  a  dinner  and  a  music  hall.  He  invited 
also  one  Kelly,  a  mutual  friend  of  a  cynical  and 
combative  disposition.  Jackson  liked  to  hear 
him  and  Herrick  abuse  each  other,  and  always 

130 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

introduced  subjects  he  knew  would  cause  each 
to  lose  his  temper. 

But,  on  this  night,  Herrick  needed  no  goading. 
He  was  in  an  ungrateful  mood.  Accustomed  to 
food  fresh  from  the  soil  and  the  farmyard,  he 
sneered  at  hothouse  asparagus,  hothouse  grapes, 
and  cold-storage  quail.  At  the  music  hall  he 
was  even  more  difficult.  In  front  of  him  sat  a 
stout  lady  who  when  she  shook  with  laughter 
shed  patchouli  and  a  man  who  smoked  Ameri 
can  cigarettes.  At  these  and  the  steam  heat, 
the  nostrils  of  Herrick,  trained  to  the  odor  of 
balsam  and  the  smoke  of  open  wood  fires,  took 
offense.  He  refused  to  be  amused.  The  mono 
logue  artist,  in  whom  Jackson  found  delight, 
caused  Herrick  only  to  groan;  the  knockabout 
comedians  he  hoped  would  break  their  collar 
bones;  the  lady  who  danced  Salome,  and  who 
fascinated  Kelly,  Herrick  prayed  would  catch 
pneumonia  and  die  of  it.  And  when  the  drop 
rose  upon  the  Countess  Zichy's  bears,  his  dis 
satisfaction  reached  a  climax. 

There  were  'three  bears — a  large  papa  bear, 
a  mamma  bear,  and  the  baby  bear.  On  the 
programme  they  were  described  as  Bruno, 
Clara,  and  I  key.  They  were  of  a  dusty  brown, 
with  long,  curling  noses  tipped  with  white,  and 
fat,  tan-colored  bellies.  When  father  Bruno, 
on  his  hind  legs  and  bare  feet,  waddled  down  the 


THE  NATURE  FAKER 

stage,  he  resembled  a  Hebrew  gentleman  in  a 
brown  bathing  suit  who  had  lost  his  waist-line. 
As  he  tripped  doubtfully  forward,  with  mincing 
steps,  he  continually  and  mournfully  wagged  his 
head.  He  seemed  to  be  saying:  "This  water 
is  much  too  cold  for  me."  The  mamma  bear 
was  dressed  in  a  poke  bonnet  and  white  apron, 
and  resembled  the  wolf  who  frightened  Little 
Red  Riding-Hood,  and  I  key,  the  baby  bear, 
wore  rakishly  over  one  eye  the  pointed  cap  of  a 
clown.  To  those  who  knew  their  vaudeville, 
this  was  indisputable  evidence  that  I  key  would 
furnish  the  comic  relief.  Nor  did  I  key  disap 
point  them.  He  was  a  wayward  son.  When  his 
parents  were  laboriously  engaged  in  a  boxing- 
match,  or  dancing  to  the  "Merry  Widow 
Waltz,"  or  balancing  on  step-ladders,  Ikey,  on 
all  fours,  would  scamper  to  the  foot-lights  and, 
leaning  over,  make  a  swift  grab  at  the  head  of 
the  first  trombone.  And  when  the  Countess 
Zichy,  apprised  by  the  shouts  of  the  audience 
of  I  key's  misconduct,  waved  a  toy  whip,  Ikey 
would  gallop  back  to  his  pedestal  and  howl  at 
her.  To  every  one,  except  Herrick  and  the 
first  trombone,  this  playfulness  on  the  part  of 
Ikey  furnished  great  delight. 

The  performances  of  the  bears  ended  with 
Bruno  and  Clara  dancing  heavily  to  the  refrain 
of  the  "Merry  Widow  Waltz,"  while  Ikey  pre- 
132 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

tended  to  conduct  the  music  of  the  orchestra. 
On  the  final  call,  Madame  Zichy  threw  to  each 
of  the  animals  a  beer  bottle  filled  with  milk; 
and  the  gusto  with  which  the  savage-looking 
beasts  uncorked  the  bottles  and  drank  from 
them  greatly  amused  the  audience.  I  key,  stand 
ing  on  his  hind  legs,  his  head  thrown  back, 
with  both  paws  clasping  the  base  of  the  bottle, 
shoved  the  neck  far  down  his  throat,  and  then, 
hurling  it  from  him,  and  cocking  his  clown's 
hat  over  his  eyes,  gave  a  masterful  imitation  of 
a  very  intoxicated  bear. 

"That,"  exclaimed  Herrick  hotly,  "is  a  de 
grading  spectacle.  It  degrades  the  bear  and 
degrades  me  and  you." 

"No,  it  bores  me,"  said  Kelly. 

"  If  you  understood  nature,"  retorted  Herrick, 
"and  nature's  children,  it  would  infuriate  you." 

"I  don't  go  to  a  music  hall  to  get  infuriated," 
said  Kelly. 

"Trained  dogs  I  don't  mind,"  exclaimed  Her 
rick.  "Dogs  are  not  wild  animals.  The  things 
they're  trained  to  do  are  of  USE.  They  can 
guard  the  house,  or  herd  sheep.  But  a  bear  is  a 
wild  beast.  Always  will  be  a  wild  beast.  You 
can't  train  him  to  be  of  use.  It's  degrading  to 
make  him  ride  a  bicycle.  I  hate  it!  If  I'd 
known  there  were  to  be  performing  bears  to 
night,  I  wouldn't  have  come!" 

133 


THE  NATURE  FAKER 

"And  if  I'd  known  you  were  to  be  here  to 
night,  /  wouldn't  have  come!"  said  Kelly. 
"Where  do  we  go  to  next?" 

They  went  next  to  a  restaurant  in  a  gayly 
decorated  cellar.  Into  this  young  men  like 
themselves  and  beautiful  ladies  were  so  anxious 
to  hurl  themselves  that  to  restrain  them  a  rope 
was  swung  across  the  entrance  and  page  boys 
stood  on  guard.  When  a  young  man  became 
too  anxious  to  spend  his  money,  the  page  boys 
pushed  in  his  shirt  front.  After  they  had 
fought  their  way  to  a  table,  Herrick  ungraciously 
remarked  he  would  prefer  to  sup  in  a  subway 
station.  The  people,  he  pointed  out,  would  be 
more  human,  the  decorations  were  much  of  the 
same  Turkish-bath  school  of  art,  and  the  air  was 
no  worse. 

"Cheer  up,  Clarence!"  begged  Jackson, 
"you'll  soon  be  dead.  To-morrow  you'll  be 
back  among  your  tree-toads  and  sunsets.  And, 
let  us  hope,"  he  sighed,  "no  one  will  try  to  stop 
you!" 

"What  worries  me  is  this,"  explained  Herrick. 
"  I  can't  help  thinking  that,  if  one  night  of  this 
artificial  life  is  so  hard  upon  me,  what  must  it 
be  to  those  bears  !" 

Kelly  exclaimed,  with  exasperation:  "Con 
found  the  bears !"  he  cried.  "If  you  must  spoil 
my  supper  weeping  over  animals,  weep  over 
cart-horses.  They  work.  Those  bears  are  loaf- 

134 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

ers.  They're  as  well  fed  as  pet  canaries. 
They're  aristocrats." 

"But  it's  not  a  free  life!"  protested  Herrick. 
"It's  not  the  life  they  love." 

"It's  a  darned  sight  better,"  declared  Kelly, 
"than  sleeping  in  a  damp  wood,  eating  raw 
blackberries 

"The  more  you  say,"  retorted  Herrick,  "the 
more  you  show  you  know  nothing  whatsoever 
of  nature's  children  and  their  habits." 

"And  all  you  know  of  them,"  returned  Kelly, 
"is  that  a  cat  has  nine  lives,  and  a  barking  dog 
won't  bite.  You're  a  nature  faker." 

Herrick  refused  to  be  diverted. 

"It  hurt  me,"  he  said.  "They  were  so  big, 
and  good-natured,  and  helpless.  I'll  bet  that 
woman  beats  them  !  I  kept  thinking  of  them  as 
they  were  in  the  woods,  tramping  over  the  clean 
pine  needles,  eating  nuts,  and — and  honey, 
and- 

"  Buns ! "  suggested  Jackson. 

"I  can't  forget  them,"  said  Herrick.  "It's 
going  to  haunt  me,  to-morrow,  when  I'm  back 
in  the  woods;  I'll  think  of  those  poor  beasts 
capering  in  a  hot  theatre,  when  they  ought  to 
be  out  in  the  open  as  God  meant  they— 

"Well,  then,"  protested  Kelly,  "take  'em  to 
the  open.  And  turn  'em  loose!  And  I  hope 
they  bite  you !" 

At  this  Herrick  frowned  so  deeply  that  Kelly 

'35 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

feared  he  had  gone  too  far.  Inwardly,  he  re 
proved  himself  for  not  remembering  that  his 
friend  lacked  a  sense  of  humor.  But  Herrick 
undeceived  him. 

1 '  You  are  right ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  To-morrow 
I  will  buy  those  bears,  take  them  to  the  farm, 
and  turn  them  loose!" 

No  objections  his  friend  could  offer  could 
divert  him  from  his  purpose.  When  they  urged 
that  to  spend  so  much  money  in  such  a  manner 
was  criminally  wasteful,  he  pointed  out  that  he 
was  sufficiently  rich  to  indulge  any  extravagant 
fancy,  whether  in  polo  ponies  or  bears;  when 
they  warned  him  that  if  he  did  not  look  out  the 
bears  would  catch  him  alone  in  the  woods,  and 
eat  him,  he  retorted  that  the  bears  were  now 
educated  to  a  different  diet;  when  they  said  he 
should  consider  the  peace  of  mind  of  his  neigh 
bors,  he  assured  them  the  fence  around  his  game 
preserve  would  restrain  an  elephant. 

"Besides/'  protested  Kelly,  "what  you  pro 
pose  to  do  is  not  only  impracticable,  but  it's 
cruelty  to  animals.  A  domesticated  animal 
can't  return  to  a  state  of  nature,  and  live." 

"Can't  it?"  jeered  Herrick.  "Did  you  ever 
read  'The  Call  of  the  Wild'?" 

"Did  you  ever  read,"  retorted  Kelly,  "what 
happened  at  the  siege  of  Ladysmith  when  the 
oats  ran  low  and  they  drove  the  artillery  horses 

•36 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

out  to  grass?  They  starved,  that's  all.  And  if 
you  don't  feed  your  bears  on  milk  out  of  a 
bottle  they'll  starve  too." 

"That's  what  will  happen,"  cried  Jackson; 
"those  bears  have  forgotten  what  a  pine  forest 
smells  like.  Maybe  it's  a  pity,  but  it's  the  fact. 
I'll  bet  if  you  could  ask  'em  whether  they'd 
rather  sleep  in  a  cave  on  your  farm  or  be  head- 
liners  in  vaudeville,  they'd  tell  you  they  were 
*  devoted  to  their  art." 

"Why!"  exclaimed  Kelly,  "they're  so  far 
from  nature  that  if  they  didn't  have  that  colored 
boy  to  comb  and  brush  them  twice  a  day  they'd 
be  ashamed  to  look  each  other  in  the  eyes." 

"And  another  thing,"  continued  Jackson, 
"trained  animals  love  to  'show  off.'  They're 
like  children.  Those  bears  enjoy  doing  those 
tricks.  They  enjoy  the  applause.  They  enjoy 
dancing  to  the  'Merry  Widow  Waltz.'  And 
if  you  lock  them  up  in  your  jungle,  they'll  get 
so  homesick  that  they'll  give  a  performance 
twice  a  day  to  the  squirrels  and  woodpeckers." 

"It's  just  as  hard  to  unlearn  a  thing  as  to 
learn  it,"  said  Kelly  sententiously.  "You  can't 
make  a  man  who  has  learned  to  wear  shoes 
enjoy  going  around  in  his  bare  feet." 

"Rot!"  cried  Herrick.  "Look  at  me. 
Didn't  I  love  New  York?  I  loved  it  so  I  never 
went  to  bed  for  fear  I'd  miss  something.  But 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

when  I  went  'Back  to  the  Land,'  did  it  take  me 
long  to  fall  in  love  with  the  forests  and  the 
green  fields?  It  took  me  a  week.  I  go  to  bed 
now  the  same  day  I  get  up,  and  I've  passed  on 
my  high  hat  and  frock  coat  to  a  scarecrow. 
And  I'll  bet  you  when  those  bears  once  scent 
the  wild  woods  they'll  stampede  for  them  like 
Croker  going  to  a  third  alarm." 

"And  I  repeat,"  cried  Kelly,  "you  are  a 
nature  faker.  And  I'll  leave  it  to  the  bears  to 
prove  it." 

"We  have  done  our  best,"  sighed  Jackson. 
"We  have  tried  to  save  him  money  and  trouble. 
And  now  all  he  can  do  for  us  in  return  is  to  give 
us  seats  for  the  opening  performance." 

What  the  bears  cost  Herrick  he  never  told. 
But  it  was  a  very  large  sum.  As  the  Countess 
Zichy  pointed  out,  bears  as  bears,  in  a  state  of 
nature,  are  cheap.  If  it  were  just  a  bear  he 
wanted,  he  himself  could  go  to  Pike  County, 
Pennsylvania,  and  trap  one.  What  he  was 
paying  for,  she  explained,  was  the  time  she  had 
spent  in  educating  the  Bruno  family,  and  added 
to  that  the  time  during  which  she  must  now 
remain  idle  while  she  educated  another  family. 

Herrick  knew  for  what  he  was  paying.  It 
was  the  pleasure  of  rescuing  unwilling  slaves 
from  bondage.  As  to  their  expensive  education, 
if  they  returned  to  a  state  of  ignorance  as 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

rapidly  as  did  most  college  graduates  he  knew, 
he  would  be  satisfied.  Two  days  later,  when  her 
engagement  at  the  music  hall  closed,  Madame 
Zichy  reluctantly  turned  over  her  pets  to  their 
new  manager.  With  I  key  she  was  especially 
loath  to  part. 

"I'll  never  get  one  like  him,"  she  wailed. 
"I key  is  the  funniest  four-legged  clown  in 
America.  He's  a  natural-born  comedian.  Folks 
think  I  learn  him  those  tricks,  but  it's  all  his 
own  stuff.  Only  last  week  we  was  playing 
Paoli's  in  Bridgeport,  and  when  I  was  putting 
Bruno  through  the  hoops,  I  key  runs  to  the  stage- 
box  and  grabs  a  pound  of  caramels  out  of  a 
girl's  lap — and  swallows  the  box.  And  in  St. 
Paul,  if  the  trombone  hadn't  worn  a  wig,  Ikey 
would  have  scalped  him.  Say,  it  was  a  scream ! 
When  the  audience  see  the  trombone  snatched 
bald-headed,  and  him  trying  to  get  back  his 
wig,  and  Ikey  chewing  it,  they  went  crazy. 
You  can't  learn  a  bear  tricks  like  that.  It's 
just  genius.  Some  folks  think  I  taught  him  to 
act  like  he  was  intoxicated,  but  he  picked  that 
up,  too,  all  by  himself,  through  watching  my 
husband.  And  I  key's  very  fond  of  beer  on  his 
own  account.  If  I  don't  stop  'em  the  stage 
hands  would  be  always  slipping  him  drinks. 
I  hope  you  won't  give  him  none." 

"I  will  not!"  said  Herrick. 

139 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

The  bears,  I  key  in  one  cage  and  Bruno  and 
Clara  in  another,  travelled  by  express  to  the 
station  nearest  the  Herrick  estate.  There  they 
were  transferred  to  a  farm  wagon,  and  grum 
bling  and  growling,  and  with  I  key  howling  like 
an  unspanked  child,  they  were  conveyed  to  the 
game  preserve.  At  the  only  gate  that  entered 
it,  Kelly  and  Jackson  and  a  specially  invited 
house  party  of  youths  and  maidens  were  gathered 
to  receive  them.  At  a  greater  distance  stood 
all  of  the  servants  and  farm  hands,  and  as  the 
wagon  backed  against  the  gate,  with  the  door 
of  I  key's  cage  opening  against  it,  the  entire 
audience,  with  one  accord,  moved  solidly  to 
the  rear.  Herrick,  with  a  pleased  but  some 
what  nervous  smile,  mounted  the  wagon.  But 
before  he  could  unlock  the  cage  Kelly  demanded 
to  be  heard.  He  insisted  that,  following  the 
custom  of  all  great  artists,  the  bears  should 
give  a  "positively  farewell  performance." 

He  begged  that  Bruno  and  Clara  might  be 
permitted  to  dance  together.  He  pointed  out 
that  this  would  be  the  last  time  they  could 
listen  to  the  strains  of  the  "Merry  Widow 
Waltz."  He  called  upon  everybody  present  to 
whistle  it. 

The  suggestion  of  an  open-air  performance 
was  received  coldly.  At  the  moment  no  one 
seemed  able  to  pucker  his  lips  into  a  whistle, 

140 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

and  some  even  explained  that  with  that  famous 
waltz  they  were  unfamiliar. 

One  girl  attained  an  instant  popularity  by 
pointing  out  that  the  bears  could  waltz  just  as 
well  on  one  side  of  the  fence  as  the  other. 
Kelly,  cheated  of  his  free  performance,  then 
begged  that  before  Herrick  condemned  the 
bears  to  starve  on  acorns,  he  should  give  them 
a  farewell  drink,  and  Herrick,  who  was  slightly 
rattled,  replied  excitedly  that  he  had  not  ran 
somed  the  animals  only  to  degrade  them. 
The  argument  was  interrupted  by  the  French 
chef  falling  out  of  a  tree.  He  had  climbed 
it,  he  explained,  in  order  to  obtain  a  better 
view. 

When,  in  turn,  it  was  explained  to  him  that  a 
bear  also  could  climb  a  tree,  he  remembered  he 
had  left  his  oven  door  open.  His  departure 
reminded  other  servants  of  duties  they  had 
neglected,  and  one  of  the  guests,  also,  on  remem 
bering  he  had  put  in  a  long-distance  call, 
hastened  to  the  house.  Jackson  suggested  that 
perhaps  they  had  better  all  return  with  him, 
as  the  presence  of  so  many  people  might  frighten 
the  bears.  At  the  moment  he  spoke,  I  key 
emitted  a  hideous  howl,  whether  of  joy  or  rage 
no  one  knew,  and  few  remained  to  find  out. 
It  was  not  until  Herrick  had  investigated  and 
Deported  that  I  key  was  still  behind  the  bars 

141 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

that  the  house  party  cautiously  returned.  The 
house  party  then  filed  a  vigorous  protest.  Its 
members,  with  Jackson  as  spokesman,  com 
plained  that  Herrick  was  relying  entirely  too 
much  on  his  supposition  that  the  bears  would 
be  anxious  to  enter  the  forest.  Jackson  pointed 
out  that,  should  they  not  care  to  do  so,  there 
was  nothing  to  prevent  them  from  doubling 
back  under  the  wagon;  in  which  case  the  house 
party  and  all  of  the  United  States  lay  before 
them.  It  was  not  until  a  lawn-tennis  net  and 
much  chicken  wire  was  stretched  in  intricate 
thicknesses  across  the  lower  half  of  the  gate 
that  Herrick  was  allowed  to  proceed.  Un 
assisted,  he  slid  back  the  cage  door,  and  without 
a  moment's  hesitation  Ikey  leaped  from  the 
wagon  through  the  gate  and  into  the  preserve. 
For  an  instant,  dazed  by  the  sudden  sunlight, 
he  remained  motionless,  and  then,  after  sniffing 
delightedly  at  the  air,  stuck  his  nose  deep  into 
the  autumn  leaves.  Turning  on  his  back,  he 
luxuriously  and  joyfully  kicked  his  legs,  and 
rolled  from  side  to  side. 

Herrick  gave  a  shout  of  joy  and  triumph. 
"What  did  I  tell  you!"  he  called.  "See  how 
he  loves  it !  See  how  happy  he  is." 

"Not  at  all,"  protested  Kelly.  "He  thought 
you  gave  him  the  sign  to  'roll  over.'  Tell  him 
to  'play  dead/  and  he'll  do  that." 

142 


"Tell  ALL  the  bears  to  'play  dead,'"  begged 
Jackson,  "until  I'm  back  in  the  billiard-room." 

Flushed  with  happiness,  Herrick  tossed  I  key's 
cage  out  of  the  wagon,  and  opened  the  door  of 
the  one  that  held  Bruno  and  Clara.  On  their 
part,  there  was  a  moment  of  doubt.  As  though 
suspecting  a  trap,  they  moved  to  the  edge  of 
the  cage,  and  gazed  critically  at  the  screen  of 
trees  and  tangled  vines  that  rose  before  them. 

"They  think  it's  a  new  backdrop,"  explained 
Kelly. 

But  the  delight  with  which  I  key  was  enjoying 
his  bath  in  the  autumn  leaves  was  not  lost  upon 
his  parents.  Slowly  and  clumsily  they  dropped 
to  the  ground.  As  though  they  expected  to  be 
recalled,  each  turned  to  look  at  the  group  of 
people  who  had  now  run  to  peer  through  the 
wire  meshes  of  the  fence.  But,  as  no  one  spoke 
and  no  one  signalled,  the  three  bears,  in  single 
file,  started  toward  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
They  had  of  cleared  space  to  cover  only  a  little 
distance,  and  at  each  step,  as  though  fearful 
they  would  be  stopped  and  punished,  one  or 
the  other  turned  his  head.  But  no  one  halted 
them.  With  quickening  footsteps  the  bears, 
now  almost  at  a  gallop,  plunged  forward.  The 
next  instant  they  were  lost  to  sight,  and  only 
the  crackling  of  the  underbrush  told  that  they 
had  come  into  their  own. 

143 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

Herrick  dropped  to  the  ground  and  locked 
himself  inside  the  preserve. 

"I'm  going  after  them,"  he  called,  "to  see 
what  they'll  do." 

There  was  a  frantic  chorus  of  cries  and 
entreaties. 

"  Don't  be  an  ass ! "  begged  Jackson.  "  They'll 
eat  you." 

Herrick  waved  his  hand  reassuringly. 

"They  won't  even  see  me,"  he  explained. 
"  I  can  find  my  way  about  this  place  better  than 
they  can.  And  I'll  keep  to  windward  of  them, 
and  watch  them.  Go  to  the  house,"  he  com 
manded.  "I'll  be  with  you  in  an  hour,  and 
report." 

It  was  with  real  relief  that,  on  assembling  for 
dinner,  the  house  party  found  Herrick,  in  high 
spirits,  with  the  usual  number  of  limbs,  and 
awaiting  them.  The  experiment  had  proved  a 
great  success.  He  told  how,  unheeded  by  the 
bears,  he  had,  without  difficulty,  followed  in 
their  tracks.  For  an  hour  he  had  watched 
them.  No  happy  school-children,  let  loose 
at  recess,  could  have  embraced  their  freedom 
with  more  obvious  delight.  They  drank  from 
the  running  streams,  for  honey  they  explored 
the  hollow  tree-trunks,  they  sharpened  their 
claws  on  moss-grown  rocks,  and  among  the  fallen 
oak  leaves  scratched  violently  for  acorns. 

144 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

So  satisfied  was  Herrick  with  what  he  had 
seen,  with  the  success  of  his  experiment,  and  so 
genuine  and  unselfish  was  he  in  the  thought  of 
the  happiness  he  had  brought  to  the  beasts  of 
the  forests,  that  for  him  no  dinner  ever  passed 
more  pleasantly.  Miss  Waring,  who  sat  next 
to  her  host,  thought  she  had  seldom  met  a  man 
with  so  kind  and  simple  a  nature.  She  rather 
resented  the  fact,  and  she  was  inwardly  indig 
nant  that  so  much  right  feeling  and  affection 
could  be  wasted  on  farmyard  fowls,  and  four- 
footed  animals.  She  felt  sure  that  some  nice 
girl,  seated  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  smiling 
through  the  light  of  the  wax  candles  upon  Her 
rick,  would  soon  make  him  forget  his  love  of 
"Nature  and  Nature's  children."  She  even 
saw  herself  there,  and  this  may  have  made  her 
exhibit  more  interest  in  Herrick's  experiment 
than  she  really  felt.  In  any  event,  Herrick 
found  her  most  sympathetic,  and  when  dinner 
was  over  carried  her  off  to  a  corner  of  the  ter 
race.  It  was  a  warm  night  in  early  October, 
and  the  great  woods  of  the  game  preserve  that 
stretched  below  them  were  lit  with  a  full  moon. 
On  his  way  to  the  lake  for  a  moonlight  row  with 
one  of  the  house  party  who  belonged  to  that  sex 
that  does  not  row,  but  looks  well  in  the  moon 
light,  Kelly  halted,  and  jeered  mockingly. 

"How  can  you  sit  there,"  he  demanded, 
145 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

"while  those  poor  beasts  are  freezing  in  a  cave, 
with  not  even  a  silk  coverlet  or  a  pillow-sham. 
You  and  your  valet  ought  to  be  down  there  now 
carrying  them  pajamas." 

"Kelly,"  declared  Herrick,  unruffled  in  his 
moment  of  triumph,  "  I  hate  to  say,  *  I  told  you 
so,'  but  you  force  me.  Go  away,"  he  com 
manded.  "You  have  neither  imagination  nor 
soul." 

"And  that's  true,"  he  assured  Miss  Waring, 
as  Kelly  and  his  companion  left  them.  "Now, 
I  see  nothing  in  what  I  accomplished  that  is 
ridiculous.  Had  you  watched  those  bears  as 
I  did,  you  would  have  felt  that  sympathy  that 
exists  between  all  who  love  the  out-of-door  life. 
A  dog  loves  to  see  his  master  pick  up  his  stick 
and  his  hat  to  take  him  for  a  walk,  and  the  man 
enjoys  seeing  the  dog  leaping  and  quartering 
the  fields  before  him.  They  are  both  the 
happier.  At  least  I  am  happier  to-night,  know 
ing  those  bears  are  at  peace  and  at  home,  than 
I  would  be  if  I  thought  of  them  being  whipped 
through  their  tricks  in  a  dirty  theatre."  Her 
rick  pointed  to  the  great  forest  trees  of  the  pre 
serve,  their  tops  showing  dimly  in  the  mist  of 
moonlight.  "Somewhere,  down  in  that  valley," 
he  murmured,  "are  three  happy  animals.  They 
are  no  longer  slaves  and  puppets — they  are 
their  own  masters.  For  the  rest  of  their  lives 

146 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

they  can  sleep  on  pine  needles  and  dine  on  nuts 
and  honey.  No  one  shall  molest  them,  no  one 
shall  force  them  through  degrading  tricks. 
Hereafter  they  can  choose  their  life,  and  their 
own  home  among  the  rocks,  and  the " 

Herrick's  words  were  frozen  on  his  tongue. 

From  the  other  end  of  the  terrace  came  a 
scream  so  fierce,  so  long,  so  full  of  human 
suffering,  that  at  the  sound  the  blood  of  all  that 
heard  it  turned  to  water.  It  was  so  appalling 
that  for  an  instant  no  one  moved,  and  then 
from  every  part  of  the  house,  along  the  garden 
walks,  from  the  servants'  quarters,  came  the 
sound  of  pounding  feet.  Herrick,  with  Miss 
Waring  clutching  at  his  sleeve,  raced  toward 
the  other  end  of  the  terrace.  They  had  not 
far  to  go.  Directly  in  front  of  them  they  saw 
what  had  dragged  from  the  very  soul  of  the 
woman  the  scream  of  terror. 

The  drawing-room  opened  upon  the  terrace, 
and,  seated  at  the  piano,  Jackson  had  been 
playing  for  those  in  the  room  to  dance.  The 
windows  to  the  terrace  were  open.  The  terrace 
itself  was  flooded  with  moonlight.  Seeking  the 
fresh  air,  one  of  the  dancers  stepped  from  the 
drawing-room  to  the  flags  outside.  She  had 
then  raised  the  cry  of  terror  and  fallen  in  a 
faint.  What  she  had  seen,  Herrick  a  moment 
later  also  saw.  On  the  terrace  in  the  moon- 

147 


THE  NATURE   FAKER 

light,  Bruno  and  Clara,  on  their  hind  legs, 
were  solemnly  waltzing.  Neither  the  scream 
nor  the  cessation  of  the  music  disturbed  them. 
Contentedly,  proudly,  they  continued  to  revolve 
in  hops  and  leaps.  From  their  happy  expres 
sion,  it  was  evident  they  not  only  were  enjoying 
themselves,  but  that  they  felt  they  were  greatly 
affording  immeasurable  delight  to  others. 

Sick  at  heart,  furious,  bitterly  hurt,  with 
roars  of  mocking  laughter  in  his  ears,  Herrick 
ran  toward  the  stables  for  help.  At  the  farther 
end  of  the  terrace  the  butler  had  placed  a  tray 
of  liqueurs,  whiskeys,  and  soda  bottles.  His 
back  had  been  turned  for  only  a  few  moments, 
but  the  time  had  sufficed. 

Lolling  with  his  legs  out,  stretched  in  a  wicker 
chair,  Herrick  beheld  the  form  of  I  key.  Be 
tween  his  uplifted  paws  he  held  aloof  the  base 
of  a  decanter;  between  his  teeth,  and  well 
jammed  down  his  throat,  was  the  long  neck  of 
the  bottle.  From  it  issued  the  sound  of  gentle 
gurgling.  Herrick  seized  the  decanter  and 
hurled  it  crashing  upon  the  terrace.  With 
difficulty  I  key  rose.  Swaying  and  shaking  his 
head  reproachfully,  he  gave  Herrick  a  perfectly 
accurate  imitation  of  an  intoxicated  bear. 


148 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

HAD  the  Wilmot  Electric  Light  people  re 
mained  content  only  to  make  light,  had  they 
not,  as  a  by-product,  attempted  to  make  money, 
they  need  not  have  left  Hayti. 

When  they  flooded  with  radiance  the  unpaved 
streets  of  Port-au-Prince  no  one,  except  the 
police,  who  complained  that  the  lights  kept 
them  awake,  made  objection;  but  when  for 
this  illumination  the  Wilmot  Company  de 
manded  payment,  every  one  up  to  President 
Hamilcar  Poussevain  was  surprised  and  grieved. 
So  grieved  was  President  Ham,  as  he  was 
lovingly  designated,  that  he  withdrew  the  Wil 
mot  concession,  surrounded  the  power-house 
with  his  barefooted  army,  and  in  a  proclamation 
announced  that  for  the  future  the  furnishing  of 
electric  light  would  be  a  monopoly  of  the 
government. 

In  Hayti,  as  soon  as  it  begins  to  make  money, 
any  industry,  native  or  foreign,  becomes  a 
monopoly  of  the  government.  The  thing  works 
automatically.  It  is  what  in  Hayti  is  under 
stood  as  haute  finance.  The  Wilmot  people 
should  have  known  that.  Because  they  did  not 

149 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

know  that,  they  stood  to  lose  what  they  had 
sunk  in  the  electric-light  plant,  and  after  their 
departure  to  New  York,  which  departure  was 
accelerated  as  far  as  the  wharf  by  seven  generals 
and  twelve  privates,  they  proceeded  to  lose  more 
money  on  lobbyists  and  lawyers  who  claimed 
to  understand  international  law;  even  the  law 
of  Hayti.  And  lawyers  who  understand  that 
are  high-priced. 

The  only  employee  of  the  Wilmot  force  who 
was  not  escorted  to  the  wharf  under  guard  was 
Billy  Barlow.  He  escaped  the  honor  because 
he  was  superintendent  of  the  power-house,  and 
President  Ham  believed  that  without  him  the 
lightning  would  not  strike.  Accordingly  by  an 
executive  order  Billy  became  an  employee  of 
the  government.  With  this  arrangement  the 
Wilmot  people  were  much  pleased.  For  they 
trusted  Billy,  and  they  knew  while  in  the 
courts  they  were  righting  to  regain  their  prop 
erty,  he  would  see  no  harm  came  to  it. 

Billy's  title  was  Directeur  General  et  Inspec- 
teur  Municipal  de  Luminaire  Electrique,  which 
is  some  title,  and  his  salary  was  fifty  dollars  a 
week.  In  spite  of  Billy's  color  President  Ham 
always  treated  his  only  white  official  with 
courtesy  and  gave  him  his  full  title.  About 
giving  him  his  full  salary  he  was  less  particular. 
This  neglect  greatly  annoyed  Billy.  He  came 

150 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

of  sturdy  New  England  stock  and  possessed 
that  New  England  conscience  which  makes  the 
owner  a  torment  to  himself,  and  to  every  one 
else  a  nuisance.  Like  all  the  other  Barlows  of 
Barnstable  on  Cape  Cod,  Billy  had  worked  for 
his  every  penny.  He  was  no  shirker.  From  the 
first  day  that  he  carried  a  pair  of  pliers  in  the 
leg  pocket  of  his  overalls,  and  in  a  sixty-knot 
gale  stretched  wires  between  ice-capped  tele 
graph  poles,  he  had  more  than  earned  his  wages. 
Never,  whether  on  time  or  at  piece-work,  had 
he  by  a  slovenly  job,  or  by  beating  the  whistle, 
robbed  his  employer.  And  for  his  honest  toil 
he  was  determined  to  be  as  honestly  paid- 
even  by  President  Hamilcar  Poussevain.  And 
President  Ham  never  paid  anybody;  neither 
the  Armenian  street  peddlers,  in  whose  sweets 
he  delighted,  nor  the  Bethlehem  Steel  Com 
pany,  nor  the  house  of  Rothschild. 

Why  he  paid  Billy  even  the  small  sums  that 
from  time  to  time  Billy  wrung  from  the  presi 
dent's  strong  box  the  foreign  colony  were  at  a 
loss  to  explain.  Wagner,  the  new  American 
consul,  asked  Billy  how  he  managed  it.  As  an 
American  minister  had  not  yet  been  appointed 
to  the  duties  of  the  consul,  as  Wagner  assured 
everybody,  were  added  those  of  diplomacy. 
But  Haytian  diplomacy  he  had  yet  to  master. 
At  the  seaport  in  Scotland  where  he  had  served 

151 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

as  vice-consul,  law  and  order  were  as  solidly 
established  as  the  stone  jetties,  and  by  contrast 
the  eccentricities  of  the  Black  Republic  baffled 
and  distressed  him. 

"It  can't  be  that  you  blackmail  the  presi 
dent,"  said  the  consul,  "because  I  understand 
he  boasts  he  has  committed  all  the  known 


crimes." 


"And  several  he  invented,"  agreed  Billy. 

"And  you  can't  do  it  with  a  gun,  because 
they  tell  me  the  president  isn't  afraid  of  any 
thing  except  a  voodoo  priestess.  What  is  your 
secret?"  coaxed  the  consul.  "If  you'll  only 
sell  it,  I  know  several  Powers  that  would  give 
you  your  price." 

Billy  smiled  modestly. 

"It's  very  simple,"  he  said.  "The  first  time 
my  wages  were  shy  I  went  to  the  palace  and 
told  him  if  he  didn't  come  across  I'd  shut  off 
the  juice.  I  think  he  was  so  stunned  at  any 
body  asking  him  for  real  money  that  while  he 
was  still  stunned  he  opened  his  safe  and  handed 
me  two  thousand  francs.  I  think  he  did  it 
more  in  admiration  for  my  nerve  than  because 
he  owed  it.  The  next  time  pay-day  arrived, 
and  the  pay  did  not,  I  didn't  go  to  the  palace. 
I  just  went  to  bed,  and  the  lights  went  to  bed, 
too.  You  may  remember?" 

The  consul  snorted  indignantly. 
152 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

"I  was  holding  three  queens  at  the  time,"  he 
protested.  "Was  it  you  did  that?" 

"It  was,"  said  Billy.  "The  police  came  for 
me  to  start  the  current  going  again,  but  I  said 
I  was  too  ill.  Then  the  president's  own  doctor 
came,  old  Gautier,  and  Gautier  examined  me 
with  a  lantern  and  said  that  in  Hayti  my 
disease  frequently  proved  fatal,  but  he  thought 
if  I  turned  on  the  lights  I  might  recover.  I 
told  him  I  was  tired  of  life,  anyway,  but  that  if 
I  could  see  three  thousand  francs  it  might 
give  me  an  incentive.  He  reported  back  to 
the  president  and  the  three  thousand  francs 
arrived  almost  instantly,  and  a  chicken  broth 
from  Ham's  own  chef,  with  His  Excellency's 
best  wishes  for  the  recovery  of  the  invalid. 
My  recovery  was  instantaneous,  and  I  switched 
on  the  lights. 

"I  had  just  moved  into  the  Widow  Ducrot's 
hotel  that  week,  and  her  daughter  Claire 
wouldn't  let  me  eat  the  broth.  I  thought  it 
was  because,  as  she's  a  dandy  cook  herself,  she 
was  professionally  jealous.  She  put  the  broth 
on  the  top  shelf  of  the  pantry  and  wrote  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  'Gare!'  But  the  next  morning 
a  perfectly  good  cat,  who  apparently  couldn't 
read,  was  lying  beside  it  dead." 

The  consul  frowned  reprovingly. 

"  You  should  not  make  such  reckless  charges," 
153 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

he  protested.     "I  would  call  it  only  a  coinci 
dence." 

"You  can  call  it  what  you  please,"  said  Billy, 
"but  it  won't  bring  the  cat  back.  Anyway, 
the  next  time  I  went  to  the  palace  to  collect, 
the  president  was  ready  for  me.  He  said  he'd 
been  taking  out  information,  and  he  found  if  I 
shut  off  the  lights  again  he  could  hire  another 
man  in  the  States  to  turn  them  on.  I  told  him 
he'd  been  deceived.  I  told  him  the  Wilmot 
Electric  Lights  were  produced  by  a  secret  proc 
ess,  and  that  only  a  trained  Wilmot  man  could 
work  them.  And  I  pointed  out  to  him  if  he 
dismissed  me  it  wasn't  likely  the  Wilmot  people 
would  loan  him  another  expert;  not  while  they 
were  fighting  him  through  the  courts  and  the 
State  Department.  That  impressed  the  old 
man;  so  I  issued  my  ultimatum.  I  said  if  he 
must  have  electric  lights  he  must  have  me,  too. 
Whether  he  liked  it  or  not,  mine  was  a  life  job." 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?"  gasped  the  new 
consul. 

"Said  it  wasn't  a  life  job,  because  he  was 
going  to  have  me  shot  at  sunset." 

"Then  you  said?" 

"I  said  if  he  did  that  there  wouldn't  be  any 
electric  lights,  and  you  would  bring  a  warship 
and  shoot  Hayti  off  the  map." 

The  new  consul  was  most  indignant. 
154 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

"  You  had  no  right  to  say  that !"  he  protested. 
"You  did  very  ill.  My  instructions  are  to  avoid 
all  serious  complications." 

"That  was  what  I  was  trying  to  avoid,"  said 
Billy.  "Don't  you  call  being  shot  at  sunset  a 
serious  complication?  Or  would  that  be  just 
a  coincidence,  too?  You're  a  hellofa  consul!" 

Since  his  talk  with  the  representative  of  his 
country  four  months  had  passed  and  Billy  still 
held  his  job.  But  each  month  the  number  of 
francs  he  was  able  to  wrest  from  President 
Hamilcar  dwindled,  and  were  won  only  after 
verbal  conflicts  that  each  month  increased  in 
violence. 

To  the  foreign  colony  it  became  evident  that, 
in  the  side  of  President  Ham,  Billy  was  a  thorn, 
sharp,  irritating,  virulent,  and  that  at  any  mo 
ment  Ham  might  pluck  that  thorn  and  Billy 
would  leave  Hayti  in  haste,  and  probably  in 
hand-cuffs.  This  was  evident  to  Billy,  also, 
and  the  prospect  was  most  disquieting.  Not 
because  he  loved  Hayti,  but  because  since  he 
went  to  lodge  at  the  cafe  of  the  Widow  Ducrot, 
he  had  learned  to  love  her  daughter  Claire,  and 
Claire  loved  him. 

On  the  two  thousand  dollars  due  him  from 
Ham  they  plotted  to  marry.  This  was  not  as 
great  an  adventure  as  it  might  appear.  Billy 
knew  that  from  the  Wilmot  people  he  always 

155 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

was  sure  of  a  salary,  and  one  which,  with  such 
an  excellent  housekeeper  as  was  Claire,  would 
support  them  both.  But  with  his  two  thousand 
dollars  as  capital  they  could  afford  to  plunge; 
they  could  go  upon  a  honeymoon ;  they  need  not 
dread  a  rainy  day,  and,  what  was  of  greatest 
importance,  they  need  not  delay.  There  was 
good  reason  against  delay,  for  the  hand  of  the 
beautiful  Claire  was  already  promised.  The 
Widow  Ducrot  had  promised  it  to  Paillard,  he 
of  the  prosperous  commission  business,  the 
prominent  embonpoint,  and  four  children.  Mon 
sieur  Paillard  possessed  an  establishment  of  his 
own,  but  it  was  a  villa  in  the  suburbs;  and  so, 
each  day  at  noon,  for  his  dejeune  he  left  his 
office  and  crossed  the  street  to  the  Cafe  Ducrot. 
For  five  years  this  had  been  his  habit.  At  first 
it  was  the  widow's  cooking  that  attracted  him, 
then  for  a  time  the  widow  herself;  but  when 
from  the  convent  Claire  came  to  assist  her 
mother  in  the  cafe,  and  when  from  a  lanky, 
big-eyed,  long-legged  child  she  grew  into  a 
slim,  joyous,  and  charming  young  woman,  she 
alone  was  the  attraction,  and  the  Widower 
Paillard  decided  to  make  her  his  wife.  Other 
men  had  made  the  same  decision;  and  when  it 
was  announced  that  between  Claire  and  the 
widower  a  marriage  had  been  "arranged,"  the 
clerks  in  the  foreign  commission  houses  and  the 

156 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

agents  of  the  steamship  lines  drowned  their 
sorrow  in  rum  and  ran  the  house  flags  to  half- 
staff.  Paillard  himself  took  the  proposed  alli 
ance  calmly.  He  was  not  an  impetuous  suitor. 
With  Widow  Ducrot  he  agreed  that  Claire  was 
still  too  young  to  marry,  and  to  himself  kept  the 
fact  that  to  remarry  he  was  in  no  haste.  In  his 
mind  doubts  still  lingered.  With  a  wife,  young 
enough  to  be  one  of  his  children,  disorganizing 
the  routine  of  his  villa,  would  it  be  any  more 
comfortable  than  he  now  found  it?  Would 
his  eldest  daughter  and  her  stepmother  dwell 
together  in  harmony?  The  eldest  daughter  had 
assured  him  that  so  far  as  she  was  concerned 
they  would  not;  and,  after  all,  in  marrying  a 
girl,  no  matter  how  charming,  without  a  dot, 
and  the  daughter  of  a  boarding-house  keeper, 
no  matter  how  respectable,  was  he  not  disposing 
of  himself  too  cheaply?  These  doubts  assailed 
Papa  Paillard;  these  speculations  were  in  his 
mind.  And  while  he  speculated  Billy  acted. 

"  I  know  that  in  France,"  Billy  assured  Claire, 
"marriages  are  arranged  by  the  parents;  but 
in  my  country  they  are  arranged  in  heaven. 
And  who  are  we  to  disregard  the  edicts  of 
heaven?  Ages  and  ages  ago,  before  the  flood, 
before  Napoleon,  even  before  old  Paillard  with 
his  four  children,  it  was  arranged  in  heaven  that 
you  were  to  marry  me.  So,  what  little  plans 

157 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

your  good  mother  may  make  don't  cut  enough 
ice  to  cool  a  green  mint.  Now,  we  can't  try 
to  get  married  here,"  continued  Billy,  "without 
your  mother  and  Paillard  knowing  it.  In  this 
town  as  many  people  have  to  sign  the  marriage 
I  contract  as  signed  our  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence:  all  the  civil  authorities,  all  the 
clergy,  all  the  relatives;  if  every  man  in  the 
telephone  book  isn't  a  witness,  the  marriage 
doesn't  'take.'  So,  we  must  elope!" 

Having  been  brought  up  in  a  convent,  where 
she  was  taught  to  obey  her  mother  and  forbidden 
to  think  of  marriage,  Claire  was  naturally  de- 
lighed  with  the  idea  of  an  elopement. 

"To  where  will  we  elope  to?"  she  demanded. 
Her  English,  as  she  learned  it  from  Billy,  was 
sometimes  confusing. 

"To  New  York,"  said  Billy.  "On  the  voyage 
there  I  will  put  you  in  charge  of  the  stewardess 
and  the  captain;  and  there  isn't  a  captain  on 
the  Royal  Dutch  or  the  Atlas  that  hasn't  known 
you  since  you  were  a  baby.  And  as  soon  as  we 
dock  we'll  drive  straight  to  the  city  hall  for  a 
license  and  the  mayor  himself  will  marry  us. 
Then  I'll  get  back  my  old  job  from  the  Wilmot 
folks  and  we'll  live  happy  ever  after!" 

"In  New  York,  also,"  asked  Claire  proudly, 
"are  you  directeur  of  the  electric  lights?" 

"On  Broadway  alone,"  Billy  explained  reprov- 


BILLY  AND  THE   BIG  STICK 

ingly,  "there  is  one  sign  that  uses  more  bulbs 
than  there  are  in  the  whole  of  Hayti !" 

"New  York  is  a  large  town!"  exclaimed 
Claire. 

"It's  a  large  sign,"  corrected  Billy.  "But," 
he  pointed  out,  "with  no  money  we'll  never 
see  it.  So  to-morrow  I'm  going  to  make  a 
social  call  on  Grandpa  Ham  and  demand  my 
ten  thousand  francs." 

Claire  grasped  his  arm. 

"Be  careful,"  she  pleaded.  "Remember  the 
chicken  soup.  If  he  offers  you  the  champagne, 
refuse  it ! " 

"He  won't  offer  me  the  champagne,"  Billy 
assured  her.  "It  won't  be  that  kind  of  a  call." 

Billy  left  the  Cafe  Ducrot  and  made  his  way 
to  the  water-front.  He  was  expecting  some 
electrical  supplies  by  the  Prim  der  Nederlanden, 
and  she  had  already  come  to  anchor. 

He  was  late,  and  save  for  a  group  of  his  coun 
trymen,  who  with  the  customs  officials  were 
having  troubles  of  their  own,  the  customs  shed 
was  all  but  deserted.  Billy  saw  his  freight 
cleared  and  was  going  away  when  one  of  those 
in  trouble  signalled  for  assistance. 

He  was  a  good-looking  young  man  in  a 
Panama  hat  and  his  manner  seemed  to  take  it 
for  granted  that  Billy  knew  who  he  was. 

"They  want  us  to  pay  duty  on  our  trunks,'* 
159 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

he  explained,  "and  we  want  to  leave  them  in 
bond.  We'll  be  here  only  until  to-night,  when 
we're  going  on  down  the  coast  to  Santo  Domingo. 
But  we  don't  speak  French,  and  we  can't  make 
them  understand  that." 

"You  don't  need  to  speak  any  language  to 
give  a  man  ten  dollars,"  said  Billy. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  man  in  the  Panama. 
"I  was  afraid  if  I  tried  that  they  might  arrest 


us." 


"They  may  arrest  you  if  you  don't,"  said 
Billy. 

Acting  both  as  interpreter  and  disbursing 
agent,  Billy  satisfied  the  demands  of  his  fellow 
employees  of  the  government,  and  his  fellow 
countrymen  he  directed  to  the  Hotel  Ducrot. 

As  some  one  was  sure  to  take  their  money, 
he  thought  it  might  as  well  go  to  his  mother- 
in-law  elect.  The  young  man  in  the  Panama 
expressed  the  deepest  gratitude,  and  Billy, 
assuring  him  he  would  see  him  later,  continued 
to  the  power-house,  still  wondering  where  he 
had  seen  him  before. 

At  the  power-house  he  found  seated  at  his 
desk  a  large,  bearded  stranger  whose  derby 
hat  and  ready-to-wear  clothes  showed  that  he 
also  had  but  just  arrived  on  the  Prinz  der 
Nederlanden. 

"You  William  Barlow?"  demanded  the 
1 60 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

stranger.  "  I  understand  you  been  threatening, 
unless  you  get  your  pay  raised,  to  commit 
sabotage  on  these  works?" 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  inquired  Billy. 

The  stranger  produced  an  impressive-looking 
document  covered  with  seals. 

"Contract  with  the  president,"  he  said. 
"  I've  taken  over  your  job.  You  better  get  out 
quiet,"  he  advised,  "as  they've  given  me  a 
squad  of  nigger  policemen  to  see  that  you 
do." 

"Are  you  aware  that  these  works  are  the 
property  of  the  Wilmot  Company?"  asked 
Billy,  "and  that  if  anything  went  wrong  here 
they'd  hold  you  responsible?" 

The  stranger  smiled  complacently. 

"I've  run  plants,"  he  said,  "that  make  these 
lights  look  like  a  stable  lantern  on  a  foggy 
night." 

"In  that  case,"  assented  Billy,  "should  any 
thing  happen,  you'll  know  exactly  what  to  do, 
and  I  can  leave  you  in  charge  without  feeling 
the  least  anxiety." 

"That's  just  what  you  can  do,"  the  stranger 
agreed  heartily,  "and  you  can't  do  it  too  quick !" 
From  the  desk  he  took  Billy's  favorite  pipe  and 
loaded  it  from  Billy's  tobacco-jar.  But  when 
Billy  had  reached  the  door  he  called  to  him. 
"Before  you  go,  son,"  he  said,  "you  might  give 

161 


BILLY  AND  THE   BIG  STICK 

me  a  tip  about  this  climate.  I  never  been  in 
the  tropics.  It's  kind  of  unhealthy,  ain't 
it?" 

His  expression  was  one  of  concern. 

"If  you  hope  to  keep  alive,"  began  Billy, 
"there  are  two  things  to  avoid " 

The  stranger  laughed  knowingly. 

"I  got  you!"  he  interrupted.  [< You're  going 
to  tell  me  to  cut  out  wine  and  women." 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you,"  said  Billy,  "to  cut 
out  hoping  to  collect  any  wages  and  to  avoid 
every  kind  of  soup." 

From  the  power-house  Billy  went  direct  to 
the  palace.  His  anxiety  was  great.  Now  that 
Claire  had  consented  to  leave  Hayti,  the  loss 
of  his  position  did  not  distress  him.  But  the 
possible  loss  of  his  back  pay  would  be  a  catas 
trophe.  He  had  hardly  enough  money  to  take 
them  both  to  New  York,  and  after  they  arrived 
none  with  which  to  keep  them  alive.  Before 
the  Wilmot  Company  could  find  a  place  for 
him  a  month  might  pass,  and  during  that 
month  they  might  starve.  If  he  went  alone  and 
arranged  for  Claire  to  follow,  he  might  lose  her. 
Her  mother  might  marry  her  to  Paillard;  Claire 
might  fall  ill;  without  him  at  her  elbow  to  keep 
her  to  their  purpose  the  voyage  to  an  unknown 
land  might  require  more  courage  than  she 
possessed.  Billy  saw  it  was  imperative  they 

162 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

should  depart  together,  and  to  that  end  he  must 
have  his  two  thousand  dollars.  The  money  was 
justly  his.  For  it  he  had  sweated  and  slaved; 
had  given  his  best  effort.  And  so,  when  he 
faced  the  president,  he  was  in  no  conciliatory 
mood.  Neither  was  the  president. 

By  what  right,  he  demanded,  did  this  foreigner 
affront  his  ears  with  demands  for  money;  how 
dared  he  force  his  way  into  his  presence  and  to 
his  face  babble  of  back  pay?  It  was  insolent, 
incredible.  With  indignation  the  president  set 
forth  the  position  of  the  government.  Billy 
had  been  discharged  and,  with  the  appointment 
of  his  successor,  the  stranger  in  the  derby  hat, 
had  ceased  to  exist.  The  government  could 
not  pay  money  to  some  one  who  did  not  exist. 
All  indebtedness  to  Billy  also  had  ceased  to 
exist.  The  account  had  been  wiped  out.  Billy 
had  been  wiped  out. 

The  big  negro,  with  the  chest  and  head  of  a 
gorilla,  tossed  his  kinky  white  curls  so  violently 
that  the  ringlets  danced.  Billy,  he  declared, 
had  been  a  pest;  a  fly  that  buzzed  and  buzzed 
and  disturbed  his  slumbers.  And  now  when  the 
fly  thought  he  slept  he  had  caught  and  crushed 
it — so.  President  Ham  clinched  his  great  fist 
convulsively  and,  with  delight  in  his  panto 
mime,  opened  his  fingers  one  by  one,  and  held 
out  his  pink  palm,  wrinkled  and  crossed  like  the 

163 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

hand  of  a  washerwoman,  as  though  to  show 
Billy  that  in  it  lay  the  fly,  dead. 

"Cest  une  chose  jugee!"  thundered  the  presi 
dent. 

He  reached  for  his  quill  pen. 

But  Billy,  with  Claire  in  his  heart,  with  the 
injustice  of  it  rankling  in  his  mind,  did  not 
agree. 

"It  is  not  an  affair  closed,"  shouted  Billy  in 
his  best  French.  "It  is  an  affair  international, 
diplomatic;  a  cause  for  war!" 

Believing  he  had  gone  mad,  President  Ham 
gazed  at  him  speechless. 

"From  here  I  go  to  the  cable  office,"  shouted 
Billy.  "I  cable  for  a  warship !  If,  by  to-night, 
I  am  not  paid  my  money,  marines  will  surround 
our  power-house,  and  the  Wilmot  people  will 
back  me  up,  and  my  government  will  back 
me  up!" 

It  was,  so  Billy  thought,  even  as  he  launched 
it,  a  tirade  satisfying  and  magnificent.  But  in 
his  turn  the  president  did  not  agree. 

He  rose.  He  was  a  large  man.  Billy  wondered 
he  had  not  previously  noticed  how  very  large 
he  was. 

"To-night  at  nine  o'clock,"  he  said,  "the 
German  boat  departs  for  New  York."  As 
though  aiming  a  pistol,  he  raised  his  arm  and  at 
Billy  pointed  a  finger.  "If,  after  she  departs, 

164 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

you  are  found  in  Port-au-Prince,  you  will 
be  shot!" 

The  audience-chamber  was  hung  with  great 
mirrors  in  frames  of  tarnished  gilt.  In  these 
Billy  saw  himself  reproduced  in  a  wavering 
line  of  Billies  that,  like  the  ghost  of  Banquo, 
stretched  to  the  disappearing  point.  Of  such 
images  there  was  an  army,  but  of  the  real 
Billy,  as  he  was  acutely  conscious,  there  was 
but  one.  Among  the  black  faces  scowling  from 
the  doorways  he  felt  the  odds  were  against  him. 
Without  making  a  reply  he  passed  out  between 
the  racks  of  rusty  muskets  in  the  anteroom, 
between  the  two  Catling  guns  guarding  the 
entrance,  and  on  the  palace  steps,  in  indecision, 
halted. 

As  Billy  hesitated  an  officer  followed  him  from 
the  palace  and  beckoned  to  the  guard  that  sat 
in  the  bare  dust  of  the  Champ  de  Mars  playing 
cards  for  cartridges.  Two  abandoned  the  game, 
and,  having  received  their  orders,  picked  their 
muskets  from  the  dust  and  stood  looking  ex 
pectantly  at  Billy. 

They  were  his  escort,  and  it  was  evident  that 
until  nine  o'clock,  when  he  sailed,  his  movements 
would  be  spied  upon;  his  acts  reported  to  the 
president. 

Such  being  the  situation,  Billy  determined 
that  his  first  act  to  be  reported  should  be  of  a 

165 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

nature  to  cause  the  president  active  mental 
anguish.  With  his  guard  at  his  heels  he  went 
directly  to  the  cable  station,  and  to  the  Secretary 
of  State  of  the  United  States  addressed  this 
message:  "President  refuses  my  pay;  threatens 
shoot;  wireless  nearest  war-ship  proceed  here 
full  speed.  William  Barlow." 

Billy  and  the  director  of  telegraphs,  who  out 
of  office  hours  was  a  field-marshal,  and  when 
not  in  his  shirt-sleeves  always  appeared  in  uni 
form,  went  over  each  word  of  the  cablegram 
together.  When  Billy  was  assured  that  the 
field-marshal  had  grasped  the  full  significance 
of  it  he  took  it  back  and  added,  "Love  to  Aunt 
Maria."  The  extra  words  cost  four  dollars 
and  eighty  cents  gold,  but,  as  they  suggested 
ties  of  blood  between  himself  and  the  Secretary 
of  State,  they  seemed  advisable.  In  the  ac 
count-book  in  which  he  recorded  his  daily 
expenditures  Billy  credited  the  item  to  "life- 
insurance." 

The  revised  cablegram  caused  the  field- 
marshal  deep  concern.  He  frowned  at  Billy 
ferociously. 

"I  will  forward  this  at  once,"  he  promised. 
"But,  I  warn  you,"  he  added,  "I  deliver  also  a 
copy  to  my  president!" 

Billy  sighed  hopefully. 

"You  might  deliver  the  copy  first,"  he 
suggested. 

166 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

From  the  cable  station  Billy,  still  accom 
panied  by  his  faithful  retainers,  returned  to  the 
power-house.  There  he  bade  farewell  to  the 
black  brothers  who  had  been  his  assistants,  and 
upon  one  of  them  pressed  a  sum  of  money. 

As  they  parted,  this  one,  as  though  giving 
the  pass-word  of  a  secret  society,  chanted  sol 
emnly  : 

"A  huit  heures  juste!" 

And  Billy  clasped  his  hand  and  nodded. 

At  the  office  of  the  Royal  Dutch  West  India 
Line  Billy  purchased  a  ticket  to  New  York  and 
inquired  were  there  many  passengers. 

"The  ship  is  empty,"  said  the  agent. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Billy,  "for  one  of  my 
assistants  may  come  with  me.  He  also  is  being 
deported." 

'You  can  have  as  many  cabins  as  you  want," 
said  the  agent.  "We  are  so  sorry  to  see  you  go 
that  we  will  try  to  make  you  feel  you  leave  us 
on  your  private  yacht." 

The  next  two  hours  Billy  spent  in  seeking  out 
those  acquaintances  from  whom  he  could  borrow 
money.  He  found  that  by  asking  for  it  in 
homoeopathic  doses  he  was  able  to  shame  the 
foreign  colony  into  loaning  him  all  of  one 
hundred  dollars.  This,  with  what  he  had  in 
hand,  would  take  Claire  and  himself  to  New 
York  and  for  a  week  keep  them  alive.  After 
that  he  must  find  work  or  they  must  starve. 

167 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

In  the  garden  of  the  Cafe  Ducrot  Billy  placed 
his  guard  at  a  table  with  bottles  of  beer  between 
them,  and  at  an  'adjoining  table  with  Claire 
plotted  the  elopement  for  that  night.  The 
garden  was  in  the  rear  of  the  hotel  and  a  door 
in  the  lower  wall  opened  into  the  rue  Cambon, 
that  led  directly  to  the  water-front. 

Billy  proposed  that  at  eight  o'clock  Claire 
should  be  waiting  in  the  rue  Cambon  outside 
this  door.  They  would  then  make  their  way 
to  one  of  the  less  frequented  wharfs,  where 
Claire  would  arrange  to  have  a  rowboat  in 
readiness,  and  in  it  they  would  take  refuge  on 
the  steamer.  An  hour  later,  before  the  flight 
of  Claire  could  be  discovered,  they  would  have 
started  on  their  voyage  to  the  mainland. 

"I  warn  you,"  said  Billy,  "that  after  we  reach 
New  York  I  have  only  enough  to  keep  us  for  a 
week.  It  will  be  a  brief  honey-moon.  After 
that  we  will  probably  starve.  I'm  not  telling 
you  this  to  discourage  you,"  he  explained; 
"only  trying  to  be  honest." 

"I  would  rather  starve  with  you  in  New 
York,"  said  Claire,  "than  die  here  without 
you." 

At  these  words  Billy  desired  greatly  to  kiss 
Claire,  but  the  guards  were  scowling  at  him. 
It  was  not  until  Claire  had  gone  to  her  room  to 
pack  her  bag  and  the  chance  to  kiss  her  had 

1 68 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

passed  that  Billy  recognized  that  the  scowls 
were  intended  to  convey  the  fact  that  the  beer 
bottles  were  empty.  He  remedied  this  and 
remained  alone  at  his  table  considering  the  out 
look.  The  horizon  was,  indeed,  gloomy,  and 
the  only  light  upon  it,  the  loyalty  and  love  of 
the  girl,  only  added  to  his  bitterness.  Above 
all  things  he  desired  to  make  her  content,  to 
protect  her  from  disquiet,  to  convince  her  that 
in  the  sacrifice  she  was  making  she  also  was 
plotting  her  own  happiness.  Had  he  been  able 
to  collect  his  ten  thousand  francs  his  world 
would  have  danced  in  sunshine.  As  it  was, 
the  heavens  were  gray  and  for  the  future  the 
skies  promised  only  rainy  days.  In  these  de 
pressing  reflections  Billy  was  interrupted  by  the 
approach  of  the  young  man  in  the  Panama  hat. 
Billy  would  have  avoided  him,  but  the  young 
man  and  his  two  friends  would  not  be  denied. 
For  the  service  Billy  had  rendered  them  they 
wished  to  express  their  gratitude.  It  found 
expression  in  the  form  of  Planter's  punch.  As 
they  consumed  this  Billy  explained  to  the 
strangers  why  the  customs  men  had  detained 
them. 

"You  told  them  you  were  leaving  to-night 
for  Santo  Domingo,"  said  Billy;  "but  they  knew 
that  was  impossible,  for  there  is  no  steamer 
down  the  coast  for  two  weeks." 

169 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

The  one  whose  features  seemed  familiar  re 
plied  : 

" Still,  we  are  leaving  to-night,"  he  said; 
"not  on  a  steamer,  but  on  a  war-ship." 

"A  war-ship?"  cried  Billy.  His  heart  beat 
at  high  speed.  "Then,"  he  exclaimed,  "you 
are  a  naval  officer?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head  and,  as 
though  challenging  Billy  to  make  another  guess, 
smiled. 

"Then,"  Billy  complied  eagerly,  "you  are  a 
diplomat!  Are  you  our  new  minister?" 

One  of  the  other  young  men  exclaimed 
reproachfully : 

"You  know  him  perfectly  well!"  he  pro 
tested.  "You've  seen  his  picture  thousands  of 
times." 

With  awe  and  pride  he  placed  his  hand  on 
Billy's  arm  and  with  the  other  pointed  at  the 
one  in  the  Panama  hat. 

"  It's  Harry  St.  Clair,"  he  announced.  "  Harry 
St.  Clair,  the  King  of  the  Movies!" 

"The  King  of  the  Movies,"  repeated  Billy. 
His  disappointment  was  so  keen  as  to  be  em 
barrassing. 

"Oh!"    he   exclaimed,   "I    thought    you— 
Then  he  remembered  his  manners.     "Glad  to 
meet  you,"  he  said.     "Seen  you  on  the  screen." 

Again    his    own    troubles    took    precedence. 
170 


BILLY  AND  THE   BIG  STICK 

"Did  you  say,"  he  demanded,  "one  of  our  war 
ships  is  coming  here  to-day?" 

"Coming  to  take  me  to  Santo  Domingo," 
explained  Mr.  St.  Clair.  He  spoke  airily,  as 
though  to  him  as  a  means  of  locomotion  battle 
ships  were  as  trolley-cars.  The  Planter's  punch, 
which  was  something  he  had  never  before 
encountered,  encouraged  the  great  young  man 
to  unbend.  He  explained  further  and  fully, 
and  Billy,  his  mind  intent  upon  his  own  affair, 
pretended  to  listen. 

The  United  States  Government,  Mr.  St. 
Clair  explained,,  was  assisting  him  and  the 
Apollo  Film  Company  in  producing  the  eight- 
reel  film  entitled  "The  Man  Behind  the 
Gun." 

With  it  the  Navy  Department  plotted  to 
advertise  the  navy  and  encourage  recruiting. 
In  moving  pictures,  in  the  form  of  a  story,  with 
love  interest,  villain,  comic  relief,  and  thrills, 
it  would  show  the  life  of  American  bluejackets 
afloat  and  ashore,  at  home  and  abroad.  They 
would  be  seen  at  Yokohama  playing  baseball 
with  Tokio  University;  in  the  courtyard  of  the 
Vatican  receiving  the  blessing  of  the  Pope;  at 
Waikiki  riding  the  breakers  on  a  scrubbing- 
board;  in  the  Philippines  eating  cocoanuts  in  the 
shade  of  the  sheltering  palm,  and  in  Brooklyn 
in  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  club,  in  the  shadow  of  the 

171 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

New  York  sky-scrapers,  playing  billiards  and 
reading  the  sporting  extras. 

As  it  would  be  illustrated  on  the  film  the  life 
of  :<The  Man  Behind  the  Gun"  was  one  of 
luxurious  ease.  In  it  coal-passing,  standing 
watch  in  a  blizzard,  and  washing  down  decks, 
cold  and  unsympathetic,  held  no  part.  But 
to  prove  that  the  life  of  Jack  was  not  all  play 
he  would  be  seen  fighting  for  the  flag.  That 
was  where,  as  "Lieutenant  Hardy,  U.  S.  A.," 
the  King  of  the  Movies  entered. 

"Our  company  arrived  in  Santo  Domingo 
last  week,"  he  explained.  "And  they're  waiting 
for  me  now.  I'm  to  lead  the  attack  on  the 
fortress.  We  land  in  shore  boats  under  the 
guns  of  the  ship  and  I  take  the  fortress.  First, 
we  show  the  ship  clearing  for  action  and  the 
men  lowering  the  boats  and  pulling  for  shore. 
Then  we  cut  back  to  show  the  gun-crews  serving 
the  guns.  Then  we  jump  to  the  landing-party 
wading  through  the  breakers.  I  lead  them. 
The  man  who  is  carrying  the  flag  gets  shot  and 
drops  in  the  surf.  I  pick  him  up,  put  him  on 
my  shoulder,  and  carry  him  and  the  flag  to  the 
beach,  where  I— 

Billy  suddenly  awoke.  His  tone  was  one  of 
excited  interest. 

"You  got  a  uniform?"  he  demanded. 

"Three,"  said  St.  Clair  impressively,  "made 
172 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

to  order  according  to  regulations  on  file  in  the 
Quartermaster's  Department.  Each  absolutely 
correct."  Without  too  great  a  show  of  eager 
ness  he  inquired:  "Like  to  see  them?" 

Without  too  great  a  show  of  eagerness  Billy 
assured  him  that  he  would. 

"I  got  to  telephone  first,"  he  added,  "but 
by  the  time  you  get  your  trunk  open  I'll  join 
you  in  your  room." 

In  the  cafe,  over  the  telephone,  Billy  addressed 
himself  to  the  field-marshal  in  charge  of  the 
cable  office.  When  Billy  gave  his  name,  the 
voice  of  that  dignitary  became  violently  agi 
tated. 

"Monsieur  Barlow,"  he  demanded,  "do  you 
know  that  the  war-ship  for  which  you  cabled 
your  Secretary  of  State  makes  herself  to 
arrive?" 

At  the  other  end  of  the  'phone,  although  re 
strained  by  the  confines  of  the  booth,  Billy 
danced  joyously.  But  his  voice  was  stern. 

"Naturally,"  he  replied.  "Where  is  she 
now?" 

An  hour  before,  so  the  field-marshal  informed 
him,  the  battle-ship  Louisiana  had  been  sighted 
and  by  telegraph  reported.  She  was  approach 
ing  under  forced  draft.  At  any  moment  she 
might  anchor  in  the  outer  harbor.  Of  this 
President  Ham  had  been  informed.  He  was 

173 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

grieved,   indignant;    he  was  also  at  a  loss  to 
understand. 

"It  is  very  simple,"  explained  Billy.  "She 
probably  was  somewhere  in  the  Windward 
Passage.  When  the  Secretary  got  my  message 
he  cabled  Guantanamo,  and  Guantanamo  wire 
lessed  the  war-ship  nearest  Port-au-Prince." 

"President  Poussevain,"  warned  the  field- 
marshal,  "is  greatly  disturbed." 

"Tell  him  not  to  worry,"  said  Billy.  "Tell 
him  when  the  bombardment  begins  I  will  see 
that  the  palace  is  outside  the  zone  of  fire." 

As  Billy  entered  the  room  of  St.  Glair  his  eyes 
shone  with  a  strange  light.  His  manner,  which 
toward  a  man  of  his  repute  St.  Clair  had  con 
sidered  a  little  too  casual,  was  now  enthu 
siastic,  almost  affectionate. 

"My  dear  St.  Clair,"  cried  Billy,  "I've  fixed 
it !  But,  until  I  was  sure,  I  didn't  want  to  raise 
your  hopes!" 

"Hopes  of  what?"  demanded  the  actor. 

"An  audience  with  the  president!"  cried 
Billy.  "I've  just  called  him  up  and  he  says  I'm 
to  bring  you  to  the  palace  at  once.  He's  heard 
of  you,  of  course,  and  he's  very  pleased  to  meet 
you.  I  told  him  about  'The  Man  Behind  the 
Gun/  and  he  says  you  must  come  in  your  make 
up  as  'Lieutenant  Hardy,  U.  S.  A./  just  as  he'll 
see  you  on  the  screen." 

174 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

Mr.  St.  Clair  stammered  delightedly. 

"In    uniform,"    he   protested;     "won't   that 

r    » 

"White,  special  full  dress,"  insisted  Billy. 
"Medals,  side-arms,  full-dress  belt,  and  gloves. 
What  a  press  story  !  *  The  King  of  the  Movies 
Meets  the  President  of  Hayti!'  Of  course, 
he's  only  an  ignorant  negro,  but  on  Broadway 
they  don't  know  that;  and  it  will  sound  fine!" 

St.  Clair  coughed  nervously. 

"Don'f  forget,"  he  stammered,  "I  can't  speak 
French,  or  understand  it,  either." 

The  eyes  of  Billy  became  as  innocent  as  those 
of  a  china  doll. 

"Then  I'll  interpret,"  he  said.  "And,  oh, 
yes,"  he  added,  "he's  sending  two  of  the  palace 
soldiers  to  act  as  an  escort — sort  of  guard  of 
honor!" 

The  King  of  the  Movies  chuckled  excitedly. 

"Fine!"  he  exclaimed.     "You  are  a  brick!" 

With  trembling  fingers  he  began  to  shed  his 
outer  garments. 

To  hide  his  own  agitation  Billy  walked  to  the 
window  and  turned  his  back.  Night  had  fallen 
and  the  electric  lights,  that  once  had  been  his 
care,  sprang  into  life.  Billy  looked  at  his  watch. 
It  was  seven  o'clock.  The  window  gave  upon 
the  harbor,  and  a  mile  from  shore  he  saw  the 
cargo  lights  of  the  Prinz  der  Nederlanden,  and 

175 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

slowly  approaching,  as  though  feeling  for  her 
berth,  a  great  battle-ship.  When  Billy  turned 
from  the  window  his  voice  was  apparently  undis 
turbed. 

"We've  got  to  hurry,"  he  said.  "The  Louisi 
ana  is  standing  in.  She'll  soon  be  sending  a 
launch  for  you.  We've  just  time  to  drive  to 
the  palace  and  back  before  the  launch  gets 
here." 

From  his  mind  President  Ham  had  dismissed 
all  thoughts  of  the  war-ship  that  had  been 
sighted  and  that  now  had  come  to  anchor. 
For  the  moment  he  was  otherwise  concerned. 
Fate  could  not  harm  him;  he  was  about  to 
dine. 

But,  for  the  first  time  in  the  history  of  his 
administration,  that  solemn  ceremony  was  rudely 
halted.  An  excited  aide,  trembling  at  his  own 
temerity,  burst  upon  the  president's  solitary 
state. 

In  the  anteroom,  he  announced,  an  officer 
from  the  battle-ship  Louisiana  demanded  in 
stant  audience. 

For  a  moment,  transfixed  in  amazement, 
anger,  and  alarm  President  Ham  remained 
seated.  Such  a  visit,  uninvited,  was  against 
all  tradition;  it  was  an  affront,  an  insult.  But 
that  it  was  against  all  precedent  argued  some 
serious  necessity.  He  decided  it  would  be  best 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

to  receive  the  officer.  Besides,  to  continue  his 
dinner  was  now  out  of  the  question.  Both 
appetite  and  digestion  had  fled  from  him. 

In  the  anteroom  Billy  was  whispering  final 
instructions  to  St.  Clair. 

"Whatever  happens,"  he  begged,  "don't 
laugh!  Don't  even  smile  politely !  He's  very 
ignorant,  you  see,  and  he's  sensitive.  When  he 
meets  foreigners  and  can't  understand  their 
language,  he's  always  afraid  if  they  laugh  that 
he's  made  a  break  and  that  they're  laughing 
at  him.  '  So,  be  solemn;  look  grave;  look 
haughty!" 

"I  got  you,"  assented  St.  Clair.  "I'm  to 
'register*  pride." 

"Exactly!"  said  Billy.  "The  more  pride 
you  register,  the  better  for  us." 

Inwardly  cold  with  alarm,  outwardly  frigidly 
polite,  Billy  presented  "Lieutenant  Hardy." 
He  had  come,  Billy  explained,  in  answer  to  the 
call  for  help  sent  by  himself  to  the  Secretary  of 
State,  which  by  wireless  had  been  communi 
cated  to  the  Louisiana.  Lieutenant  Hardy 
begged  him  to  say  to  the  president  that  he  was 
desolate  at  having  to  approach  His  Excellency 
so  unceremoniously.  But  His  Excellency,  hav 
ing  threatened  the  life  of  an  American  citizen, 
the  captain  of  the  Louisiana  was  forced  to  act 
quickly. 

177 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

"And  this  officer?"  demanded  President  Ham; 
"what  does  he  want?" 

"He  says,"  Billy  translated  to  St.  Clair,  "that 
he  is  very  glad  to  meet  you,  and  he  wants  to 
know  how  much  you  earn  a  week." 

The  actor  suppressed  his  surprise  and  with 
pardonable  pride  said  that  his  salary  was  six 
hundred  dollars  a  week  and  royalties  on  each 
film. 

Billy  bowed  to  the  president. 

"He  says,"  translated  Billy,  "he  is  here  to  see 
that  I  get  my  ten  thousand  francs,  and  that  if  I 
don't  get  them  in  ten  minutes  he  will  return  to 
the  ship  and  land  marines." 

To  St.  Clair  it  seemed  as  though  the  president 
received  his  statement  as  to  the  amount  of  his 
salary  with  a  disapproval  that  was  hardly 
flattering.  With  the  heel  of  his  giant  fist  the 
president  beat  upon  the  table,  his  curls  shook, 
his  gorilla-like  shoulders  heaved. 

In  an  explanatory  aside  Billy  made  this 
clear. 

"He  says,"  he  interpreted,  "that  you  get 
more  as  an  actor  than  he  gets  as  president,  and 
it  makes  him  mad." 

"I  can  see  it  does  myself,"  whispered  St. 
Clair.  "And  I  don't  understand  French,  either." 

President  Ham  was  protesting  violently.  It 
was  outrageous,  he  exclaimed;  it  was  inconceiv- 


BILLY  AND  THE   BIG  STICK 

able  that  a  great  republic  should  shake  the  Big 
Stick  over  the  head  of  a  small  republic,  and  for 
a  contemptible  ten  thousand  francs. 

"I  will  not  believe,"  he  growled,  "that  this 
officer  has  authority  to  threaten  me.  You 
have  deceived  him.  If  he  knew  the  truth,  he 
would  apologize.  Tell  him,"  he  roared  sud 
denly,  "that  I  demand  that  he  apologize!" 

Billy  felt  like  the  man  who,  after  jauntily 
forcing  the  fighting,  unexpectedly  gets  a  jolt  on 
the  chin  that  drops  him  to  the  canvas. 

While  the  referee  might  have  counted  three 
Billy  remained  upon  the  canvas. 

Then  again  he  forced  the  fighting.  Eagerly 
he  turned  to  St.  Clair. 

"He  says,"  he  translated,  "you  must  recite 
something." 

St.  Clair  exclaimed  incredulously: 

"Recite!"  he  gasped. 

Than  his  indignant  protest  nothing  could  have 
been  more  appropriate. 

"Wants  to  see  you  act  out,"  insisted  Billy. 
"Go  on,"  he  begged;  "humor  him.  Do  what 
he  wants  or  he'll  put  us  in  jail!" 

"But  what  shall  I- 

"He  wants  the  curse  of  Rome  from  Richelieu," 
explained  Billy.  "He  knows  it  in  French  and 
he  wants  you  to  recite  it  in  English.  Do  you 
know  it?" 

179 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

The  actor  smiled  haughtily. 

"I  wrote  it!"  he  protested.  "Richelieu's  my 
middle  name.  I've  done  it  in  stock." 

"Then  do  it  now ! "  commanded  Billy.  "  Give 
it  to  him  hot.  I'm  Julie  de  Mortemar.  He's 
the  villain  Barabas.  Begin  where  Barabas 
hands  you  the  cue,  'The  country  is  the  king !' 

In  embarrassment  St.  Clair  coughed  tenta 
tively. 

"Whoever  heard  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,"  he 
protested,  "In  a  navy  uniform?" 

"Begin!"  begged  Billy. 

"What'II  I  do  with  my  cap?"  whispered  St. 
Clair. 

In  an  ecstasy  of  alarm  Billy  danced  from  foot 
to  foot. 

"I'll  hold  your  cap,"  he  cried.     "Go  on !" 

St.  Clair  gave  his  cap  of  gold  braid  to  Billy 
and  shifted  his  "full-dress"  sword-belt.  Not 
without  concern  did  President  Ham  observe 
these  preparations.  For  the  fraction  of  a  sec 
ond,  in  alarm,  his  eyes  glanced  to  the  exits. 
He  found  that  the  officers  of  his  staff  completely 
filled  them.  Their  presence  gave  him  confidence 
and  his  eyes  returned  to  Lieutenant  Hardy. 

That  gentleman  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  Deject 
edly,  his  head  fell  forward  until  his  chin  rested 
upon  his  chest.  Much  to  the  relief  of  the  presi 
dent,  it  appeared  evident  that  Lieutenant  Hardy 

1 80 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

was  about  to  accede  to  his  command  and 
apologize. 

St.  Clair  groaned  heavily. 

"Ay,  is  it  so?"  he  muttered.  His  voice 
was  deep,  resonant,  vibrating  like  a  bell.  His 
eyes  no  longer  suggested  apology.  They  were 
strange,  flashing;  the  eyes  of  a  religious  fanatic; 
and  balefully  they  were  fixed  upon  President 
Ham. 

"Then  wakes  the  power,"  the  deep  voice 
rumbled,  "that  in  the  age  of  iron  burst  forth 
to  curb  the  great  and  raise  the  low."  He  flung 
out  his  left  arm  and  pointed  it  at  Billy. 

"Mark  where  she  stands!"  he  commanded. 

With  a  sweeping,  protecting  gesture  he  drew 
around  Billy  an  imaginary  circle.  The  panto 
mime  was  only  too  clear.  To  the  aged  negro, 
who  feared  neither  God  nor  man,  but  only 
voodoo,  there  was  in  the  voice  and  gesture  that 
which  caused  his  blood  to  chill. 

"Around  her  form,"  shrieked  St.  Clair,  "I 
draw  the  awful  circle  of  our  solemn  church! 
Set  but  one  foot  within  that  holy  ground  and 
on  thy  head — "  Like  a  semaphore  the  left  arm 
dropped,  and  the  right  arm,  with  the  fore 
finger  pointed,  shot  out  at  President  Ham. 
"Yea,  though  it  wore  a  CROWN — I  launch  the 
CURSE  OF  ROME!" 

No  one  moved.  No  one  spoke.  What  ter- 
181 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

rible  threat  had  hit  him  President  Ham  could 
not  guess.  He  did  not  ask.  Stiffly,  like  a  man 
in  a  trance,  he  turned  to  the  rusty  iron  safe 
behind  his  chair  and  spun  the  handle.  When 
again  he  faced  them  he  held  a  long  envelope 
which  he  presented  to  Billy. 

"There  are  the  ten  thousand  francs,"  he  said. 
"Ask  him  if  he  is  satisfied,  and  demand  that  he 
go  at  once!" 

Billy  turned  to  St.  Clair. 

"He  says,"  translated  Billy,  "he's  very  much 
obliged  and  hopes  we  will  come  again.  Now," 
commanded  Billy,  "bow  low  and  go  out  facing 
him.  We  don't  want  him  to  shoot  us  in  the 
back!" 

Bowing  to  the  president,  the  actor  threw  at 
Billy  a  glance  full  of  indignation. 

"Was  I  as  bad  as  that?11  he  demanded. 

On  schedule  time  Billy  drove  up  to  the  Hotel 
Ducrot  and  relinquished  St.  Clair  to  the  ensign 
in  charge  of  the  launch  from  the  Louisiana.  At 
sight  of  St.  Clair  in  the  regalia  of  a  superior  offi 
cer,  that  young  gentleman  showed  his  surprise. 

"I've  been  giving  a  'command'  performance 
for  the  president,"  explained  the  actor  modestly. 
"I  recited  for  him,  and,  though  I  spoke  in 
English,  I  think  I  made  quite  a  hit." 

"You  certainly,"  Billy  assured  him  gratefully, 
"made  a  terrible  hit  with  me." 

182 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

As  the  moving-picture  actors,  escorted  by  the 
ensign,  followed  their  trunks  to  the  launch, 
Billy  looked  after  them  with  a  feeling  of  great 
loneliness.  He  was  aware  that  from  the  palace 
his  carriage  had  been  followed;  that  drawn  in  a 
cordon  around  the  hotel  negro  policemen  cov 
ertly  observed  him.  That  President  Ham  still 
hoped  to  recover  his  lost  prestige  and  his  lost 
money  was  only  too  evident. 

It  was  just  five  minutes  to  eight. 

Billy  ran  to  his  room,  and  with  his  suit-case  in 
his  hand  slipped  down  the  back  stairs  and  into 
the  garden.  Cautiously  he  made  his  way  to 
the  gate  in  the  wall,  and  in  the  street  outside 
found  Claire  awaiting  him. 

With  a  cry  of  relief  she  clasped  his  arm. 

"You  are  safe !"  she  cried.  "I  was  so  fright 
ened  for  you.  That  President  Ham,  he  is  a 
beast,  an  ogre !"  Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper. 
"And  for  myself  also  I  have  been  frightened. 
The  police,  they  are  at  each  corner.  They 
watch  the  hotel.  They  watch  me!  Why? 
What  do  they  want?" 

"They  want  something  of  mine,"  said  Billy. 
"But  I  can't  tell  you  what  it  is  until  I'm  sure 
it  is  mine.  Is  the  boat  at  the  wharf?" 

"All  is  arranged,"  Claire  assured  him.  "The 
boatmen  are  our  friends ;  they  will  take  us  safely 
to  the  steamer." 

183 


With  a  sigh  of  relief  Billy  lifted  her  valise 
and  his  own,  but  he  did  not  move  forward. 

Anxiously  Claire  pulled  at  his  sleeve. 

"Come!"  she  begged.  "For  what  it  is  that 
you  wait?" 

It  was  just  eight  o'clock. 

Billy  was  looking  up  at  the  single  electric- 
light  bulb  that  lit  the  narrow  street,  and  fol 
lowing  the  direction  of  his  eyes,  Claire  saw  the 
light  grow  dim,  saw  the  tiny  wires  grow  red, 
and  disappear.  From  over  all  the  city  came 
shouts,  and  cries  of  consternation  oaths,  and 
laughter,  and  then  darkness. 

"I  was  waiting  for  this!19  cried  Billy. 

With  the  delight  of  a  mischievous  child  Claire 
laughed  aloud. 

" You — you  did  it!"  she  accused. 

"I  did!"  said  Billy.  "And  now — we  must 
run  like  the  devil!" 

The  Prinz  der  Nederlanden  was  drawing  slowly 
out  of  the  harbor.  Shoulder  to  shoulder  Claire 
and  Billy  leaned  upon  the  rail.  On  the  wharfs 
of  Port-au-Prince  they  saw  lanterns  tossing  and 
candles  twinkling;  saw  the  Louisiana,  blazing 
like  a  Christmas-tree,  steaming  majestically 
south;  in  each  other's  eyes  saw  that  all  was  well. 

From  his  pocket  Billy  drew  a  long  envelope. 

"I  can  now  with  certainty,"  said  Billy,  "state 
that  this  is  mine — ours" 

184 


BILLY  AND  THE  BIG  STICK 

He  opened  the  envelope,  and  while  Claire 
gazed  upon  many  mille-franc  notes  Billy  told 
how  he  had  retrieved  them. 

"But  what  danger!"  cried  Claire.  "In  time 
Ham  would  have  paid.  Your  president  at 
Washington  would  have  made  him  pay.  Why 
take  such  risks?  You  had  but  to  wait!" 

Billy  smiled  contentedly. 

"Dear  one!"  he  exclaimed,  "the  policy  of 
watchful  waiting  is  safer,  but  the  Big  Stick  acts 
quicker  and  gets  results!" 


185 


THE  FRAME-UP 

WHEN  the  voice  over  the  telephone  promised 
to  name  the  man  who  killed  Hermann  Banf, 
District  Attorney  Wharton  was  up-town  lunch 
ing  at  Delmonico's.  This  was  contrary  to  his 
custom  and  a  concession  to  Hamilton  Cutler, 
his  distinguished  brother-in-law.  That  gentle 
man  was  interested  in  a  State  constabulary  bill 
and  had  asked  State  Senator  Bissell  to  father  it. 
He  had  suggested  to  the  senator  that,  in  the 
legal  points  involved  in  the  bill,  his  brother-in- 
law  would  undoubtedly  be  charmed  to  advise 
him.  So  that  morning,  to  talk  it  over,  Bissell 
had  come  from  Albany  and,  as  he  was  forced 
to  return  the  same  afternoon,  had  asked  Whar 
ton  to  lunch  with  him  up-town  near  the  station. 

That  in  public  life  there  breathed  a  man  with 
soul  so  dead  who,  were  he  offered  a  chance  to 
serve  Hamilton  Cutler,  would  not  jump  at  the 
chance  was  outside  the  experience  of  the  county 
chairman.  And  in  so  judging  his  fellow  men, 
with  the  exception  of  one  man,  the  senator  was 
right.  The  one  man  was  Hamilton  Cutler's 
brother-in-law. 

Tn  the  national  affairs  of  his  party  Hamilton 
1 86 


THE   FRAME-UP 

Cutler  was  one  of  the  four  leaders.  In  two 
cabinets  he  had  held  office.  At  a  foreign  court 
as  an  ambassador  his  dinners,  of  which  the 
diplomatic  corps  still  spoke  with  emotion,  had 
upheld  the  dignity  of  ninety  million  Americans. 
He  was  rich.  The  history  of  his  family  was  the 
history  of  the  State.  When  the  Albany  boats 
drew  abreast  of  the  old  Cutler  mansion  on  the 
east  bank  of  the  Hudson  the  passengers  pointed 
at  it  with  deference.  Even  when  the  search 
lights  pointed  at  it,  it  was  with  deference.  And 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  as  the  "Seeing  New  York" 
car  passed  his  town  house  it  slowed  respectfully 
to  half  speed.  When,  apparently  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  she  was  good  and  beautiful, 
he  had  married  the  sister  of  a  then  unknown  up- 
State  lawyer,  every  one  felt  Hamilton  Cutler 
had  made  his  first  mistake.  But,  like  every 
thing  else  into  which  he  entered,  for  him  matri 
mony  also  was  a  success.  The  prettiest  girl 
in  Utica  showed  herself  worthy  of  her  distin 
guished  husband.  She  had  given  him  children 
as  beautiful  as  herself;  as  what  Washington 
calls  "a  cabinet  lady"  she  had  kept  her  name 
out  of  the  newspapers;  as  Madame  PAmbas- 
satrice  she  had  put  archduchesses  at  their  ease; 
and  after  ten  years  she  was  an  adoring  wife,  a 
devoted  mother,  and  a  proud  woman.  Her 
pride  was  in  believing  that  for  every  joy  she 


THE   FRAME-UP 

knew  she  was  indebted  entirely  to  her  husband. 
To  owe  everything  to  him,  to  feel  that  through 
him  the  blessings  flowed,  was  her  ideal  of 
happiness. 

In  this  ideal  her  brother  did  not  share.  Her 
delight  in  a  sense  of  obligation  left  him  quite 
cold.  No  one  better  than  himself  knew  that  his 
rapid-fire  rise  in  public  favor  was  due  to  his  own 
exertions,  to  the  fact  that  he  had  worked  very 
hard,  had  been  independent,  had  kept  his  hands 
clean,  and  had  worn  no  man's  collar.  Other 
people  believed  he  owed  his  advancement  to 
his  brother-in-law.  He  knew  they  believed 
that,  and  it  hurt  him.  When,  at  the  annual 
dinner  of  the  Amen  Corner,  they  burlesqued 
him  as  singing  to  "Ham"  Cutler,  "You  made 
me  what  I  am  to-day,  I  hope  you're  sat-isfied," 
he  found  that  to  laugh  with  the  others  was 
something  of  an  effort.  His  was  a  difficult 
position.  He  was  a  party  man;  he  had  always 
worked  inside  the  organization.  The  fact  that 
whenever  he  ran  for  an  elective  office  the  re 
formers  indorsed  him  and  the  best  elements  in 
the  opposition  parties  voted  for  him  did  not 
shake  his  loyalty  to  his  own  people.  And  to 
Hamilton  Cutler,  as  one  of  his  party  leaders,  as 
one  of  the  bosses  of  the  "invisible  government," 
he  was  willing  to  defer.  But  while  he  could  give 
allegiance  to  his  party  leaders,  and  from  them 

!88 


THE   FRAME-UP 

was  willing  to  receive  the  rewards  of  office, 
from  a  rich  brother-in-law  he  was  not  at  all 
willing  to  accept  anything.  Still  less  was  he 
willing  that  of  the  credit  he  deserved  for  years 
of  hard  work  for  the  party,  of  self-denial,  and 
of  efficient  public  service  the  rich  brother-in-law 
should  rob  him. 

His  pride  was  to  be  known  as  a  self-made  manp 
as  the  servant  only  of  the  voters.  And  now  that 
he  had  fought  his  way  to  one  of  the  goals  of  his 
ambition,  now  that  he  was  district  attorney  of 
New  York  City,  to  have  it  said  that  the  office 
was  the  gift  of  his  brother-in-law  was  bitter. 
But  he  believed  the  injustice  would  soon  end. 
In  a  month  he  was  coming  up  for  re-election, 
and  night  and  day  was  conducting  a  campaign 
that  he  hoped  would  result  in  a  personal  victory 
so  complete  as  to  banish  the  shadow  of  his 
brother-in-law.  Were  he  re-elected  by  the  ma 
jority  on  which  he  counted,  he  would  have  the 
party  leaders  on  their  knees.  Hamilton  Cutler 
would  be  forced  to  come  to  him.  He  would  be 
in  line  for  promotion.  He  knew  the  leaders 
did  not  want  to  promote  him,  that  they  con 
sidered  him  too  inclined  to  kick  over  the  traces; 
but  were  he  now  re-elected,  at  the  next  election, 
either  for  mayor  or  governor,  he  would  be  his 
party's  obvious  and  legitimate  candidate. 

The  re-election  was  not  to  be  an  easy  victory. 


THE  FRAME-UP 

Outside  his  own  party,  to  prevent  his  succeeding 
himself  as  district  attorney,  Tammany  Hall  was 
using  every  weapon  in  her  armory.  The  com 
missioner  of  police  was  a  Tammany  man,  and 
in  the  public  prints  Wharton  had  repeatedly 
declared  that  Banf,  his  star  witness  against  the 
police,  had  been  killed  by  the  police,  and  that 
they  had  prevented  the  discovery  of  his  mur 
derer.  For  this  the  wigwam  wanted  his  scalp, 
and  to  get  it  had  raked  his  public  and  private 
life,  had  used  threats  and  bribes,  and  with 
women  had  tried  to  trap  him  into  a  scandal. 
But  "Big  Tim"  Meehan,  the  lieutenant  the 
Hall  had  detailed  to  destroy  Wharton,  had 
reported  back  that  for  their  purpose  his  record 
was  useless,  that  bribes  and  threats  only  flat 
tered  him,  and  that  the  traps  set  for  him  he 
kad  smilingly  side-stepped.  This  was  the  situa 
tion  a  month  before  election  day  when,  to 
oblige  his  brother-in-law,  Wharton  was  up 
town  at  Delmonico's  lunching  with  Senator 
Bissell. 

Down-town  at  the  office,  Rumson,  the  as 
sistant  district  attorney,  was  on  his  way  to 
lunch  when  the  telephone-girl  halted  him.  Her 
voice  was  lowered  and  betrayed  almost  human 
interest. 

From  the  corner  of  her  mouth  she  whispered : 
"This  man  has  a  note  for  Mr. Wharton — says 

190 


THE   FRAME-UP 

if  he  don't  get  it  quick  it'll  be  too  late — says  it 
will  tell  him  who  killed  'Heimie'  Banf !" 

The  young  man  and  the  girl  looked  at  each 
other  and  smiled.  Their  experience  had  not 
tended  to  make  them  credulous.  Had  he  lived, 
Hermann  Banf  would  have  been,  for  Wharton,. 
the  star  witness  against  a  ring  of  corrupt  police 
officials.  In  consequence  his  murder  was  more 
than  the  taking  off  of  a  shady  and  disreputable 
citizen.  It  was  a  blow  struck  at  the  high  office 
of  the  district  attorney,  at  the  grand  jury,  and 
the  law.  But,  so  far,  whoever  struck  the  blow 
had  escaped  punishment,  and  though  for  a 
month,  ceaselessly,  by  night  and  day  "the  office" 
and  the  police  had  sought  him,  he  was  still  at 
large,  still  "unknown."  There  had  been  hun 
dreds  of  clews.  They  had  been  furnished  by 
the  detectives  of  the  city  and  county  and  of 
the  private  agencies,  by  amateurs,  by  news 
papers,  by  members  of  the  underworld  with 
a  score  to  pay  off  or  to  gain  favor.  But  no  clew 
had  led  anywhere.  When,  in  hoarse  whispers, 
the  last  one  had  been  confided  to  him  by 
his  detectives,  Wharton  had  protested  indig 
nantly. 

"  Stop  bringing  me  clews  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
want  the  man.  I  can't  electrocute  a  clew!" 

So  when,  after  all  other  efforts,  over  the  tele 
phone  a  strange  voice  offered  to  deliver  the  mur- 

191 


THE   FRAME-UP 

derer,  Rumson  was  sceptical.     He  motioned  the 
girl  to  switch  to  the  desk  telephone. 

"Assistant  District  Attorney  Rumson  speak 
ing,"  he  said.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Before  the  answer  came,  as  though  the  speaker 
were  choosing  his  words,  there  was  a  pause.  It 
lasted  so  long  that  Rumson  exclaimed  sharply: 

"Hello,"  he  called.  "Do  you  want  to  speak 
to  me,  or  do  you  want  to  speak  to  me?" 

"I've  gotta  letter  for  the  district  attorney," 
said  the  voice.  "I'm  to  give  it  to  nobody  but 
him.  It's  about  Banf.  He  must  get  it  quick, 
or  it'll  be  too  late." 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  Rumson. 
"Where  are  you  speaking  from?" 

The  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire  ignored 
the  questions. 

"Where'H  Wharton  be  for  the  next  twenty 
minutes?" 

"If  I  tell  you,"  parried  Rumson,  "will  you 
bring  the  letter  at  once?" 

The  voice  exclaimed  indignantly: 

"Bring  nothing!  I'll  send  it  by  district  mes 
senger.  You're  wasting  time  trying  to  reach 
me.  It's  the  letter  you  want.  It  tells" — the 
voice  broke  with  an  oath  and  instantly  began 
again:  "1  can't  talk  over  a  phone.  I  tell  you, 
it's  life  or  death.  If  you  lose  out,  it's  your  own 
fault.  Where  can  I  find  Wharton?" 

192 


THE  FRAME-UP 

"At  Delmonico's,"  answered  Rumson.  "He'll 
be  there  until  two  o'clock." 

"Delmonico's !    That's  Forty-fort  Street?" 

"Right,"  said  Rumson.  "Tell  the  messen 
ger- 
He  heard  the  receiver  slam  upon  the  hook. 

With  the  light  of  the  hunter  in  his  eyes,  he 
turned  to  the  girl. 

"They  can  laugh,"  he  cried,  "but  I  believe 
we've  hooked  something.  I'm  going  after  it." 

In  the  waiting-room  he  found  the  detec 
tives. 

"Hewitt,"  he  ordered,  "take  the  subway  and 
whip  up  to  Delmonico's.  Talk  to  the  taxi- 
starter  till  a  messenger-boy  brings  a  letter  for 
the  D.  A.  Let  the  boy  deliver  the  note,  and 
then  trail  him  till  he  reports  to  the  man  he  got 
it  from.  Bring  the  man  here.  If  it's  a  district 
messenger  and  he  doesn't  report,  but  goes 
straight  back  to  the  office,  find  out  who  gave 
him  the  note;  get  his  description.  Then  meet 
me  at  Delmonico's." 

Rumson  called  up  that  restaurant  and  had 
Wharton  come  to  the  phone.  He  asked  his 
chief  to  wait  until  a  letter  he  believed  to  be  of 
great  importance  was  delivered  to  him.  He 
explained,  but,  of  necessity,  somewhat  sketchily. 

"It  sounds  to  me,"  commented  his  chief, 
"like  a  plot  of  yours  to  get  a  lunch  up-town." 

193 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"Invitation!"  cried  Rumson.  "I'll  be  with 
you  in  ten  minutes." 

After  Rumson  had  joined  Wharton  and  Bissell 
the  note  arrived.  It  was  brought  to  the  restau 
rant  by  a  messenger-boy,  who  said  that  in  an 
swer  to  a  call  from  a  saloon  on  Sixth  Avenue  he 
had  received  it  from  a  young  man  in  ready-to- 
wear  clothes  and  a  green  hat.  When  Hewitt, 
the  detective,  asked  what  the  young  man  looked 
like,  the  boy  said  he  looked  like  a  young  man  in 
ready-to-wear  clothes  and  a  green  hat.  But 
when  the  note  was  read  the  identity  of  the  man 
who  delivered  it  ceased  to  be  of  importance. 
The  paper  on  which  it  was  written  was  without 
stamped  address  or  monogram,  and  carried 
with  it  the  mixed  odors  of  the  drug-store  at 
which  it  had  been  purchased.  The  handwriting 
was  that  of  a  wonian,  and  what  she  had  written 
was:  "If  the  district  attorney  will  come  at  once, 
and  alone,  to  Kessler's  Cafe,  on  the  Boston  Post 
Road,  near  the  city  line,  he  will  be  told  who 
killed  Hermann  Banf.  If  he  don't  come  in  an 
hour,  it  will  be  too  late.  If  he  brings  anybody 
with  him,  he  won't  be  told  anything.  Leave 
your  car  in  the  road  and  walk  up  the  drive. 
Ida  Earle." 

Hewitt,  who  had  sent  away  the  messenger-boy 
and  had  been  called  in  to  give  expert  advice, 
was  enthusiastic. 

194 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"Mr.  District  Attorney,"  he  cried,  "that's  no 
crank  letter.  This  Earle  woman  is  wise.  You 
got  to  take  her  as  a  serious  proposition.  She 
wouldn't  make  that  play  if  she  couldn't  get  away 
with  it." 

"Who  is  she?"  asked  Wharton. 

To  the  police,  the  detective  assured  them,  Ida 
Earle  had  been  known  for  years.  When  she  was 
young  she  had  been  under  the  protection  of  a 
man  high  in  the  ranks  of  Tammany,  and,  in 
consequence,  with  her  different  ventures  the 
police  had  never  interfered.  She  now  was 
proprietress  of  the  road-house  in  the  note  de 
scribed  as  Kessler's  Cafe.  It  was  a  place  for 
joy-riders.  There  was  a  cabaret,  a  hall  for 
public  dancing,  and  rooms  for  very  private 
suppers. 

In  so  far  as  it  welcomed  only  those  who  could 
spend  money  it  was  exclusive,  but  in  all  other 
respects  its  reputation  was  of  the  worst.  In 
situation  it  was  lonely,  and  from  other  houses 
separated  by  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  dying  trees 
and  vacant  lots. 

The  Boston  Post  Road  upon  which  it  faced 
was  the  old  post  road,  but  lately,  through  this 
back  yard  and  dumping-ground  of  the  city, 
had  been  relaid.  It  was  patrolled  only  and 
infrequently  by  bicycle  policemen. 

"But  this,"  continued  the  detective  eagerly  ? 
195 


THE  FRAME-UP 

"is  where  we  win  out.  The  road-house  is  an 
old  farmhouse  built  over,  with  the  barns  changed 
into  garages.  They  stand  on  the  edge  of  a 
wood.  It's  about  as  big  as  a  city  block.  If  we 
come  in  through  the  woods  from  the  rear,  the 
garages  will  hide  us.  Nobody  in  the  house  can 
see  us,  but  we  won't  be  a  hundred  yards  away. 
You've  only  to  blow  a  police  whistle  and  we'll 
be  with  you." 

"You  mean  I  ought  to  go?"  said  Wharton. 

Rumson  exclaimed  incredulously: 

"You  got  to  go!" 

"It  looks  to  me,"  objected  Bissell,  "like  a  plot 
to  get  you  there  alone  and  rap  you  on  the  head." 

"Not  with  that  note  inviting  him  there," 
protested  Hewitt,  "and  signed  by  Earle  herself." 

"You  don't  know  she  signed  it?"  objected 
the  senator. 

"I  know  her"  returned  the  detective.  "I 
know  she's  no  fool.  It's  her  place,  and  she 
wouldn't  let  them  pull  off  any  rough  stuff  there 
— not  against  the  D.  A.,  anyway." 

The  D.  A.  was  rereading  the  note. 

"Might  this  be  it?"  he  asked.  "Suppose  it's 
a  trick  to  mix  me  up  in  a  scandal?  You  say  the 
place  is  disreputable.  Suppose  they're  planning 
to  compromise  me  just  before  election.  They've 
tried  it  already  several  times." 

"You've  still  got  the  note,"  persisted  Hewitt. 
196 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"  It  proves  why  you  went  there.  And  the  sena 
tor,  too.  He  can  testify.  And  we  won't  be  a 
hundred  yards  away.  And,"  he  added  grudg 
ingly,  "you  have  Nolan." 

Nolan  was  the  spoiled  child  of  "the  office." 
He  was  the  district  attorney's  pet.  Although 
still  young,  he  had  scored  as  a  detective  and  as 
a  driver  of  racing-cars.  As  Wharton's  chauffeur 
he  now  doubled  the  parts. 

"What  Nolan  testified  wouldn't  be  any  help," 
said  Wharton.  "They  would  say  it  was  just  a 
story  he  invented  to  save  me." 

"Then  square  yourself  this  way,"  urged  Rum- 
son.  "Send  a  note  now  by  hand  to  Ham  Cutler 
and  one  to  your  sister.  Tell  them  you're  going 
to  Ida  Earle's — and  why — tell  them  you're  afraid 
it's  a  frame-up,  and  for  them  to  keep  your  notes 
as  evidence.  And  enclose  the  one  from  her." 

Wharton  nodded  in  approval,  and,  while  he 
wrote,  Rumson  and  the  detective  planned  how, 
without  those  inside  the  road-house  being  aware 
of  their  presence,  they  might  be  near  it. 

Kessler's  Cafe  lay  in  the  Seventy-ninth  Police 
Precinct.  In  taxi-cabs  they  arranged  to  start  at 
once  and  proceed  down  White  Plains  Avenue, 
which  parallels  the  Boston  Road,  until  they  were 
on  a  line  with  Kessler's,  but  from  it  hidden  by 
the  woods  and  the  garages.  A  walk  of  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  across  lots  and  under  cover  of  the  trees 

197 


THE   FRAME-UP 

would  bring  them  to  within  a  hundred  yards  of 
the  house. 

Wharton  was  to  give  them  a  start  of  half  an 
hour.  That  he  might  know  they  were  on  watch, 
they  agreed,  after  they  dismissed  the  taxi-cabs, 
to  send  one  of  them  into  the  Boston  Post  Road 
past  the  road-house.  When  it  was  directly  in 
front  of  the  cafe,  the  chauffeur  would  throw  away 
into  the  road  an  empty  cigarette-case. 

From  the  cigar-stand  they  selected  a  cigarette 
box  of  a  startling  yellow.  At  half  a  mile  it  was 
conspicuous. 

"When  you  see  this  in  the  road,"  explained 
Rumson,  "you'll  know  we're  on  the  job.  And 
after  you're  inside,  if  you  need  us,  you've  only 
to  go  to  a  rear  window  and  wave." 

"  If  they  mean  to  do  him  up,"  growled  Bissell, 
"he  won't  get  to  a  rear  window." 

"He  can  always  tell  them  we're  outside,"  said 
Rumson — "and  they  are  extremely  likely  to 
believe  him.  Do  you  want  a  gun?" 

"No,"  said  the  D.  A. 

"Better  have  mine,"  urged  Hewitt. 

"I  have  my  own,"  explained  the  D.  A. 

Rumson  and  Hewitt  set  off  in  taxi-cabs  and, 
a  half-hour  later,  Wharton  followed.  As  he 
sank  back  against  the  cushions  of  the  big 
touring-car  he  felt  a  pleasing  thrill  of  excite 
ment,  and  as  he  passed  the  traffic  police,  and 

198 


THE  FRAME-UP 

they  saluted  mechanically,  he  smiled.  Had 
they  guessed  his  errand  their  interest  in  his 
progress  would  have  been  less  perfunctory.  In 
half  an  hour  he  might  know  that  the  police 
killed  Banf;  in  half  an  hour  he  himself  might 
walk  into  a  trap  they  had,  in  turn,  staged  for 
him.  As  the  car  ran  swiftly  through  the  clean 
October  air,  and  the  wind  and  sun  alternately 
chilled  and  warmed  his  blood,  Wharton  con 
sidered  these  possibilities. 

He  could  not  believe  the  woman  Earle  would 
lend  herself  to  any  plot  to  do  him  bodily  harm. 
She  was  a  responsible  person.  In  her  own  world 
she  was  as  important  a  figure  as  was  the  district 
attorney  in  his.  Her  allies  were  the  man  "  higher 
up"  in  Tammany  and  the  police  of  the  upper 
ranks  of  the  uniformed  force.  And  of  the  higher 
office  of  the  district  attorney  she  possessed  an 
intimate  and  respectful  knowledge.  It  was  not 
to  be  considered  that  against  the  prosecuting 
attorney  such  a  woman  would  wage  war.  So 
the  thought  that  upon  his  person  any  assault 
was  meditated  Wharton  dismissed  as  unintelli 
gent.  That  it  was  upon  his  reputation  the 
attack  was  planned  seemed  much  more  probable. 
But  that  contingency  he  had  foreseen  and  so, 
he  believed,  forestalled.  There  then  remained 
only  the  possibility  that  the  offer  in  the  letter 
was  genuine.  It  seemed  quite  too  good  to  be 

199 


THE   FRAME-UP 

true.  For,  as  he  asked  himself,  on  the  very 
eve  of  an  election,  why  should  Tammany,  or  a 
friend  of  Tammany,  place  in  his  possession  the 
information  that  to  the  Tammany  candidate 
would  bring  inevitable  defeat.  He  felt  that  the 
way  they  were  playing  into  his  hands  was  too 
open,  too  generous.  If  their  object  was  to  lead 
him  into  a  trap,  of  all  baits  they  might  use  the 
promise  to  tell  him  who  killed  Banf  was  the 
one  certain  to  attract  him.  It  made  their 
invitation  to  walk  into  the  parlor  almost  too 
obvious.  But  were  the  offer  not  genuine,  there 
was  a  condition  attached  to  it  that  puzzled  him. 
It  was  not  the  condition  that  stipulated  he  should 
come  alone.  His  experience  had  taught  him 
many  will  confess,  or  betray,  to  the  district  at 
torney  who,  to  a  deputy,  will  tell  nothing.  The 
condition  that  puzzled  him  was  the  one  that 
insisted  he  should  come  at  once  or  it  would  be 
"too  late." 

Why  was  haste  so  imperative?  Why,  if  he 
delayed,  would  he  be  "too  late"?  Was  the 
man  he  sought  about  to  escape  from  his  juris 
diction,  was  he  dying,  and  was  it  his  wish  to 
make  a  death-bed  confession;  or  was  he  so 
reluctant  to  speak  that  delay  might  cause  him 
to  reconsider  and  remain  silent? 

With  these  questions  in  his  mind,  the  minutes 
quickly  passed,  and  it  was  with  a  thrill  of 

200 


THE   FRAME-UP 

excitement  Wharton  saw  that  Nolan  had  left 
the  Zoological  Gardens  on  the  right  and  turned 
into  the  Boston  Road.  It  had  but  lately  been 
completed  and  to  Wharton  was  unfamiliar. 
On  either  side  of  the  unscarred  roadway  still 
lay  scattered  the  uprooted  trees  and  boulders 
that  had  blocked  its  progress,  and  abandoned 
by  the  contractors  were  empty  tar-barrels, 
cement-sacks,  tool-sheds,  and  forges.  Nor  was 
the  surrounding  landscape  less  raw  and  unlovely. 
Toward  the  Sound  stretched  vacant  lots  covered 
with  ash  heaps;  to  the  left  a  few  old  and  broken 
houses  set  among  the  glass-covered  cold  frames 
of  truck-farms. 

The  district  attorney  felt  a  sudden  twinge  of 
loneliness.  And  when  an  automobile  sign  told 
him  he  was  "10  miles  from  Columbus  Circle," 
he  felt  that  from  the  New  York  he  knew  he  was 
much  farther.  Two  miles  up  the  road  his  car 
overhauled  a  bicycle  policeman,  and  Wharton 
halted  him. 

"  Is  there  a  road-house  called  Kessler's  beyond 
here?"  he  asked. 

"On  the  left,  farther  up,"  the  officer  told  him, 
and  added:  ''You  can't  miss  it,  Mr.  Wharton; 
there's  no  other  house  near  it." 

"  You  know  me,"  said  the  D.  A.  "Then  you'll 
understand  what  I  want  you  to  do.  Pve  agreed 
to  go  to  that  house  alone.  If  they  see  you  pass 

201 


THE   FRAME-UP 

they  may  think  I'm  not  playing  fair.  So  stop 
here." 

The  man  nodded  and  dismounted. 

"But,"  added  the  district  attorney,  as  the  car 
started  forward  again,  "  if  you  hear  shots,  I  don't 
care  how  fast  you  come." 

The  officer  grinned. 

"Better  let  me  trail  along  now,"  he  called; 
"that's  a  tough  joint." 

But  Wharton  motioned  him  back;  and  when 
again  he  turned  to  look  the  man  still  stood 
where  they  had  parted. 

Two  minutes  later  an  empty  taxi-cab  came 
swiftly  toward  him  and,  as  it  passed,  the  driver 
lifted  his  hand  from  the  wheel,  and  with  his 
thumb  motioned  behind  him. 

"That's  one  of  the  men,"  said  Nolan," that 
started  with  Mr.  Rumson  and  Hewitt  from 
Delmonico's." 

Wharton  nodded;  and,  now  assured  that  in 
their  plan  there  had  been  no  hitch,  smiled  with 
satisfaction.  A  moment  later,  when  ahead  of 
them  on  the  asphalt  road  Nolan  pointed  out  a 
spot  of  yellow,  he  recognized  the  signal  and  knew 
that  within  call  were  friends. 

The  yellow  cigarette-box  lay  directly  in  front 
of  a  long  wooden  building  of  two  stories.  It 
was  linked  to  the  road  by  a  curving  driveway 
marked  on  either  side  by  whitewashed  stones. 

202 


THE  FRAME-UP 

On  verandas  enclosed  in  glass  Wharton  saw 
white-covered  tables  under  red  candle-shades 
and,  protruding  from  one  end  of  the  house  and 
hung  with  electric  lights  in  paper  lanterns,  a 
pavilion  for  dancing.  In  the  rear  of  the  house 
stood  sheds  and  a  thick  tangle  of  trees  on  which 
the  autumn  leaves  showed  yellow.  Painted 
fingers  and  arrows  pointing,  and  an  electric 
sign,  proclaimed  to  all  who  passed  that  this  was 
Kessler's.  In  spite  of  its  reputation,  the  house 
wore  the  aspect  of  the  commonplace.  In  evi 
dence  nothing  flaunted,  nothing  threatened. 
From  a  dozen  other  inns  along  the  Pelham 
Parkway  and  the  Boston  Post  Road  it  was  in 
no  way  to  be  distinguished. 

As  directed  in  the  note,  Wharton  left  the  car 
in  the  road.  "  For  five  minutes  stay  where  you 
are,"  he  ordered  Nolan;  "then  go  to  the  bar 
and  get  a  drink.  Don't  talk  to  any  one  or 
they'll  think  you're  trying  to  get  information. 
Work  around  to  the  back  of  the  house.  Stand 
where  I  can  see  you  from  the  window.  I  may 
want  you  to  carry  a  message  to  Mr.  Rumson." 

On  foot  Wharton  walked  up  the  curving  drive 
way,  and  if  from  the  house  his  approach  was 
spied  upon,  there  was  no  evidence.  In  the 
second  story  the  blinds  were  drawn  and  on  the 
first  floor  the  verandas  were  empty.  Nor,  not 
even  after  he  had  mounted  to  the  veranda  and 

203 


THE   FRAME-UP 

stepped  inside  the  house,  was  there  any  sign 
that  his  visit  was  expected.  He  stood  in  a  hall, 
and  in  front  of  him  rose  a  broad  flight  of  stairs 
that  he  guessed  led  to  the  private  supper-rooms. 
On  his  left  was  the  restaurant. 

Swept  and  garnished  after  the  revels  of  the 
night  previous,  and  as  though  resting  in  prepara 
tion  for  those  to  come,  it  wore  an  air  of  peaceful 
inactivity.  At  a  table  a  maitre  d' hotel  was 
composing  the  menu  for  the  evening,  against  the 
walls  three  colored  waiters  lounged  sleepily,  and 
on  a  platform  at  a  piano  a  pale  youth  with 
drugged  eyes  was  with  one  hand  picking  an  ac 
companiment.  As  Wharton  paused  uncertainly 
the  young  man,  disdaining  his  audience,  in  a 
shrill,  nasal  tenor  raised  his  voice  and  sang: 

"And  from  the  time  the  rooster  calls 
I'll  wear  my  overalls, 

And  you,  a  simple  gingham  gown. 
So,  if  you're  strong  for  a  shower  of  rice, 
We  two  could  make  a  paradise 

Of  any  One-Horse  Town." 

At  sight  of  Wharton  the  head  waiter  reluc 
tantly  detached  himself  from  his  menu  and  rose. 
But  before  he  could  greet  the  visitor,  Wharton 
heard  his  name  spoken  and,  looking  up,  saw  a 
woman  descending  the  stairs.  It  was  apparent 
that  when  young  she  had  been  beautiful,  and, 
in  spite  of  an  expression  in  her  eyes  of  hardness 

204 


THE  FRAME-UP 

and  distrust,  which  seemed  habitual,  she  was 
still  handsome.  She  was  without  a  hat  and 
wearing  a  house  dress  of  decorous  shades  and 
in  the  extreme  of  fashion.  Her  black  hair, 
built  up  in  artificial  waves,  was  heavy  with 
brilliantine;  her  hands,  covered  deep  with  rings, 
and  of  an  unnatural  white,  showed  the  most  fas 
tidious  care.  But  her  complexion  was  her  own; 
and  her  skin,  free  from  paint  and  powder, 
glowed  with  that  healthy  pink  that  is  supposed 
to  be  the  perquisite  only  of  the  simple  life  and 
a  conscience  undisturbed. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Earle,"  said  the  woman.  "I 
wrote  you  that  note.  Will  you  please  come 
this  way?" 

That  she  did  not  suppose  he  might  not  come 
that  way  was  obvious,  for,  as  she  spoke,  she 
turned  her  back  on  him  and  mounted  the  stairs. 
After  an  instant  of  hesitation,  Wharton  followed. 

As  well  as  his  mind,  his  body  was  now  acutely 
alive  and  vigilant.  Both  physically  and  men 
tally  he  moved  on  tiptoe.  For  whatever  sur 
prise,  for  whatever  ambush  might  lie  in  wait, 
he  was  prepared.  At  the  top  of  the  stairs  he 
found  a  wide  hall  along  which  on  both  sides 
were  many  doors.  The  one  directly  facing  the 
stairs  stood  open.  At  one  side  of  this  the 
woman  halted  and  with  a  gesture  of  the  jewelled 
fingers  invited  him  to  enter. 

205 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"My  sitting-room,"  she  said.  As  Wharton 
remained  motionless  she  substituted:  "My 
office." 

Peering  into  the  room,  Wharton  found  it  suited 
to  both  titles.  He  saw  comfortable  chairs,  vases 
filled  with  autumn  leaves,  in  silver  frames 
photographs,  and  between  two  open  windows 
a  business-like  roller-top  desk  on  which  was  a 
hand  telephone.  In  plain  sight  through  the 
windows  he  beheld  the  garage  and  behind  it 
the  tops  of  trees.  To  summon  Rumson,  to 
keep  in  touch  with  Nolan,  he  need  only  step  to 
one  of  these  windows  and  beckon.  The  strategic 
position  of  the  room  appealed,  and  with  a  bow 
of  the  head  he  passed  in  front  of  his  hostess  and 
entered  it.  He  continued  to  take  note  of  his 
surroundings. 

He  now  saw  that  from  the  office  in  which  he 
stood  doors  led  to  rooms  adjoining.  These 
doors  were  shut,  and  he  determined  swiftly 
that  before  the  interview  began  he  first  must 
know  what  lay  behind  them.  Mrs.  Earle  had 
followed  and,  as  she  entered,  closed  the  door. 

"No!  "said  Wharton. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  spoken.  For  an 
instant  the  woman  hesitated,  regarding  him 
thoughtfully,  and  then  without  resentment 
pulled  the  door  open.  She  came  toward  him 
swiftly,  and  he  was  conscious  of  the  rustle  of 

206 


THE  FRAME-UP 

silk  and  the  stirring  of  perfumes.  At  the  open 
door  she  cast  a  frown  of  disapproval  and  then, 
with  her  face  close  to  his,  spoke  hurriedly  in  a 
whisper. 

"A  man  brought  a  girl  here  to  Iunch,"she  said; 
"they've  been  here  before.  The  girl  claims  the 
man  told  her  he  was  going  to  marry  her.  Last 
night  she  found  out  he  has  a  wife  already,  and 
she  came  here  to-day  meaning  to  make  trouble. 
She  brought  a  gun.  They  were  in  the  room  at 
the  far  end  of  the  hall.  George,  the  waiter, 
heard  the  two  shots  and  ran  down  here  to  get  me. 
No  one  else  heard.  These  rooms  are  fixed  to 
keep  out  noise,  and  the  piano  was  going.  We 
broke  in  and  found  them  on  the  floor.  The 
man  was  shot  through  the  shoulder,  the  girl 
through  the  body.  His  story  is  that  after  she 
fired,  in  trying  to  get  the  gun  from  her,  she  shot 
herself — by  .accident.  That's  right,  I  guess. 
But  the  girl  says  they  came  here  to  die  together 
— what  the  newspaper  call  a  *  suicide  pact' — 
because  they  couldn't  marry,  and  that  he  first 
shot  her,  intending  to  kill  her  and  then  himself. 
That's  silly.  She  framed  it  to  get  him.  She 
missed  him  with  the  gun,  so  now  she's  trying  to 
get  him  with  this  murder  charge.  I  know  her. 
If  she'd  been  sober  she  wouldn't  have  shot  him; 
she'd  have  blackmailed  him.  She's  that  sort. 

I  know  her,  and " 

207 


THE   FRAME-UP 

With   an   exclamation   the   district   attorney 
broke  in  upon  her.      "And  the  man,"  he  de 
manded  eagerly;    "was  it  he  killed  Banf?" 

In  amazement  the  woman  stared.  "Certainly 
not!"  she  said. 

"Then  what  has  this  to  do  with  Banf?" 

"Nothing!"  Her  tone  was  annoyed,  re 
proachful.  "That  was  only  to  bring  you 
here " 

His  disappointment  was  so  keen  that  it  threat 
ened  to  exhibit  itself  in  anger.  Recognizing 
this,  before  he  spoke  Wharton  forced  himself 
to  pause.  Then  he  repeated  her  words  quietly. 

"Bring  me  here?"  he  asked.     "Why?" 

The  woman  exclaimed  impatiently:  "So  you 
could  beat  the  police  to  it,"  she  whispered. 
"So  you  could  hush  it  up!" 

The  surprised  laugh  of  the  man  was  quite 
real.  It  bore  no  resentment  or  pose.  He  was 
genuinely  amused.  Then  the  dignity  of  his 
office,  tricked  and  insulted,  demanded  to  be 
heard.  He  stared  at  her  coldly ;  his  indignation 
was  apparent. 

"You  have  done  extremely  ill,"  he  told  her. 
"You  know  perfectly  well  you  had  no  right  to 
bring  me  up  here;  to  drag  me  into  a  row 
in  your  road-house.  'Hush  it  up!'  he  ex 
claimed  hotly.  This  time  his  laugh  was  con 
temptuous  and  threatening. 

208 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"I'll  show  you  how  I'll  hush  it  up!"  He 
moved  quickly  to  the  open  window. 

"  Stop  ! "  commanded  the  woman.  "  You  can't 
do  that !" 

She  ran  to  the  door. 

Again  he  was  conscious  of  the  rustle  of  silk, 
of  the  stirring  of  perfumes. 

He  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock.  It  had 
come.  It  WAS  a  frame-up.  There  would  be  a 
scandal.  And  to  save  himself  from  it  they 
would  force  him  to  "hush  up"  this  other  one. 
But,  as  to  the  outcome,  in  no  way  was  he  con 
cerned.  Through  the  window,  standing  directly 
below  it,  he  had  seen  Nolan.  In  the  sunlit  yard 
the  chauffeur,  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head, 
his  cigarette  drooping  from  his  lips,  was  tossing 
the  remnants  of  a  sandwich  to  a  circle  of  excited 
hens.  He  presented  a  picture  of  bored  indo 
lence,  of  innocent  preoccupation.  It  was  almost 
too  well  done. 

Assured  of  a  witness  for  the  defense,  he  greeted 
the  woman  with  a  smile.  "Why  can't  I  do  it?" 
he  taunted. 

She  ran  close  to  him  and  laid  her  hands  on 
his  arm.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  steadily  on  his. 
"Because,"  she  whispered,  "the  man  who  shot 
that  girl — is  your  brother-in-law,  Ham  Cutler !" 

For  what  seemed  a  long  time  Wharton  stood 
looking  down  into  the  eyes  of  the  woman,  and 

209 


THE   FRAME-UP 

the  eyes  never  faltered.  Later  he  recalled  that 
in  the  sudden  silence  many  noises  disturbed  the 
lazy  hush  of  the  Indian-summer  afternoon:  the 
rush  of  a  motor-car  on  the  Boston  Road,  the 
tinkle  of  the  piano  and  the  voice  of  the  youth 
with  the  drugged  eyes  singing,  "And  you'll 
wear  a  simple  gingham  gown,"  from  the  yard 
below  the  cluck-cluck  of  the  chickens  and  the 
cooing  of  pigeons. 

His  first  thought  was  of  his  sister  and  of  her 
children,  and  of  what  this  bomb,  hurled  from  the 
clouds,  would  mean  to  her.  He  thought  of 
Cutler,  at  the  height  of  his  power  and  useful 
ness,  by  this  one  disreputable  act  dragged  into 
the  mire,  of  what  disaster  it  might  bring  to  the 
party,  to  himself. 

If,  as  the  woman  invited,  he  helped  to  "hush 
it  up,"  and  Tammany  learned  the  truth,  it 
would  make  short  work  of  him.  It  would  say, 
for  the  murderer  of  Banf  he  had  one  law  and  for 
the  rich  brother-in-law,  who  had  tried  to  kill 
the  girl  he  deceived,  another.  But  before  he 
gave  voice  to  his  thoughts  he  recognized  them 
as  springing  only  from  panic.  They  were  of  a 
part  with  the  acts  of  men  driven  by  sudden 
fear,  and  of  which  acts  in  their  sane  moments 
they  would  be  incapable. 

The  shock  of  the  woman's  words  had  unset 
tled  his  traditions.  Not  only  was  he  condemn- 

210 


THE   FRAME-UP 

ing  a  man  unheard,  but  a  man  who,  though  he 
might  dislike  him,  he  had  for  years,  for  his 
private  virtues,  trusted  and  admired.  The 
panic  passed  and  with  a  confident  smile  he  shook 
his  head. 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

The  manner  of  the  woman  was  equally  calm, 
equally  assured. 

"Will  you  see  her?"  she  asked. 

"I'd  rather  see  my  brother-in-law,"  he  an 
swered. 

The  woman  handed  him  a  card. 

"Doctor  Muir  took  him  to  his  private  hos 
pital,"  she  said.  "I  loaned  them  my  car 
because  it's  a  limousine.  The  address  is  on 
that  card.  But,"  she  added,  "both  your  brother 
and  Sammy — that's  Sam  Muir,  the  doctor — 
asked  you  wouldn't  use  the  telephone;  they're 
afraid  of  a  leak." 

Apparently  Wharton  did  not  hear  her.  As 
though  it  were  "Exhibit  A,"  presented  in  evi 
dence  by  the  defense,  he  was  studying  the  card 
she  had  given  him.  He  stuck  it  in  his  pocket. 

"I'll  go  to  him  at  once,"  he  said. 

To  restrain  or  dissuade  him,  the  woman  made 
no  sudden  move.  In  level  tones  she  said: 
"Your  brother-in-law  asked  especially  that  you 
wouldn't  do  that  until  you'd  fixed  it  with  the 
girl.  Your  face  is  too  well  known.  He's  afraid 

211 


THE   FRAME-UP 

some  one  might  find  out  where  he  is — and  for  a 
day  or  two  no  one  must  know  that." 

"This  doctor  knows  it,"  retorted  Wharton. 

The  suggestion  seemed  to  strike  Mrs.  Earle 
as  humorous.  For  the  first  time  she  laughed. 

"Sammy!"  she  exclaimed.  "He's  a  lobby- 
gow  of  mine.  He's  worked  for  me  for  years. 
I  could  send  him  up  the  river  if  I  liked.  He 
knows  it."  Her  tone  was  convincing.  "They 
both  asked,"  she  continued  evenly,  "you  should 
keep  off  until  the  girl  is  out  of  the  country,  and 
fixed." 

Wharton  frowned  thoughtfully. 

And,  observing  this,  the  eyes  of  the  woman 
showed  that,  so  far,  toward  the  unfortunate 
incident  the  attitude  of  the  district  attorney 
was  to  her  most  gratifying. 

Wharton  ceased  frowning. 

"How  fixed?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Earle  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Cutler's  idea  is  money,"  she  said;  "but, 
believe  me,  he's  wrong.  This  girl  is  a  vampire. 
She'll  only  come  back  to  you  for  more.  She'll 
keep  on  threatening  to  tell  the  wife,  to  tell  the 
papers.  The  way  to  fix  her  is  to  throw  a  scare 
into  her.  And  there's  only  one  man  can  do 
that;  there's  only  one  man  that  can  hush  this 
thing  up — that's  you." 

"When  can  I  see  her?"  asked  Wharton. 
212 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"Now,"  said  the  woman.     "I'll  bring  her." 

Wharton  could  not  suppress  an  involuntary 
start. 

"Here?"  he  exclaimed. 

For  the  shade  of  a  second  Mrs.  Earle  exhibited 
the  slightest  evidence  of  embarrassment. 

"My  room's  in  a  mess,"  she  explained;  "and 
she's  not  hurt  so  much  as  Sammy  said.  He 
told  her  she  was  in  bad  just  to  keep  her  quiet 
until  you  got  here." 

Mrs.  Earle  opened  one  of  the  doors  leading 
from  the  room.  "I  won't  be  a  minute,"  she 
said.  Quietly  she  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Upon  her  disappearance  the  manner  of  the 
district  attorney  underwent  an  abrupt  change. 
He  ran  softly  to  the  door  opposite  the  one 
through  which  Mrs.  Earle  had  passed,  and 
pulled  it  open.  But,  if  beyond  it  he  expected 
to  find  an  audience  of  eavesdroppers,  he  was 
disappointed.  The  room  was  empty — and  bore 
no  evidence  of  recent  occupation.  He  closed 
the  door,  and,  from  the  roller-top  desk,  snatching 
a  piece  of  paper,  scribbled  upon  it  hastily. 
Wrapping  the  paper  around  a  coin,  and  holding 
it  exposed  to  view,  he  showed  himself  at  the 
window.  Below  him,  to  an  increasing  circle  of 
hens  and  pigeons,  Nolan  was  still  scattering 
crumbs.  Without  withdrawing  his  gaze  from 
them,  the  chauffeur  nodded.  Wharton  opened 

213 


THE   FRAME-UP 

his  hand  and  the  note  fell  into  the  yard.  Be 
hind  him  he  heard  the  murmur  of  voices,  the 
sobs  of  a  woman  in  pain,  and  the  rattle  of  a 
door-knob.  As  from  the  window  he  turned 
quickly,  he  saw  that  toward  the  spot  where  his 
note  had  fallen  Nolan  was  tossing  the  last  rem 
nants  of  his  sandwich. 

The  girl  who  entered  with  Mrs.  Earle,  leaning 
on  her  and  supported  by  her,  was  tall  and  fair. 
Around  her  shoulders  her  blond  hair  hung  in 
disorder,  and  around  her  waist,  under  the 
kimono  Mrs.  Earle  had  thrown  about  her,  were 
wrapped  many  layers  of  bandages.  The  girl 
moved  unsteadily  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

In  a  hostile  tone  Mrs.  Earle  addressed  her. 

"Rose,"  she  said,  "this  is  the  district  attor 
ney."  To  him  she  added:  "She  calls  herself 
Rose  Gerard." 

One  hand  the  girl  held  close  against  her  side, 
with  the  other  she  brushed  back  the  hair  from 
her  forehead.  From  half-closed  eyes  she  stared 
at  Wharton  defiantly. 

"Well,"  she  challenged,  "what  about  it?" 

Wharton  seated  himself  in  front  of  the  roller- 
top  desk. 

"Are  you  strong  enough  to  tell  me?"  he 
asked. 

His  tone  was  kind,  and  this  the  girl  seemed  to 
resent. 

214 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"Don't  you  worry,"  she  sneered,  "I'm  strong 
enough.  Strong  enough  to  tell  all  I  know — to 
you,  and  to  the  papers,  and  to  a  jury — until  I 
get  justice."  She  clinched  her  free  hand  and 
feebly  shook  it  at  him.  "  That's  what  I'm  going 
to  get,"  she  cried,  her  voice  breaking  hysteri 
cally,  "justice." 

From  behind  the  arm-chair  in  which  the  girl 
half-reclined  Mrs.  Earle  caught  the  eye  of  the 
district  attorney  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Just  what  did  happen?"  asked  Wharton. 

Apparently  with  an  effort  the  girl  pulled  her 
self  together. 

"  I  first  met  your  brother-in-law — "  she  began. 

Wharton  interrupted  quietly. 

"Wait!"  he  said.  "You  are  not  talking  to 
me  as  anybody's  brother-in-law,  but  as  the  dis 
trict  attorney." 

The  girl  laughed  vindictively. 

"I  don't  wonder  you're  ashamed  of  him !"  she 
jeered. 

Again  she  began:  "I  first  met  Ham  Cutler 
last  May.  He  wanted  to  marry  me  then.  He 
told  me  he  was  not  a  married  man." 

As  her  story  unfolded,  Wharton  did  not  again 
interrupt;  and  speaking  quickly,  in  abrupt, 
broken  phrases,  the  girl  brought  her  narrative 
to  the  moment  when,  as  she  claimed,  Cutler 
had  attempted  to  kill  her.  At  this  point  a 

215 


THE   FRAME-UP 

knock  at  the  locked  door  caused  both  the  girl 
and  her  audience  to  start.  Wharton  looked  at 
Mrs.  Earle  inquiringly,  but  she  shook  her  head, 
and  with  a  look  at  him  also  of  inquiry,  and  of 
suspicion  as  well,  opened  the  door. 

With  apologies  her  head  waiter  presented  a 
letter. 

"For  Mr.  Wharton,"  he  explained,  "from 
his  chauffeur." 

Wharton's  annoyance  at  the  interruption 
was  most  apparent.  "What  the  devil — !>  he 
began. 

He  read  the  note  rapidly,  and  with  a  frown  of 
irritation  raised  his  eyes  to  Mrs.  Earle. 

"He  wants  to  go  to  New  Rochelle  for  an  inner 
tube,"  he  said.  "How  long  would  it  take  him 
to  get  there  and  back?" 

The  hard  and  distrustful  expression  upon  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Earle,  which  was  habitual,  was  now 
most  strongly  in  evidence.  Her  eyes  searched 
those  of  Wharton. 

"Twenty  minutes,"  she  said. 

"He  can't  go,"  snapped  Wharton. 

"Tell  him,"  he  directed  the  waiter,  "to  stay 
where  he  is.  Tell  him  I  may  want  to  go  back 
to  the  office  any  minute."  He  turned  eagerly 
to  the  girl.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  With  im 
patience  he  crumpled  the  note  into  a  ball  and 
glanced  about  him.  At  his  feet  was  a  waste- 

216 


THE   FRAME-UP 

paper  basket.  Fixed  upon  him  he  saw,  while 
pretending  not  to  see,  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Earle 
burning  with  suspicion.  If  he  destroyed  the 
note,  he  knew  suspicion  would  become  cer 
tainty.  Without  an  instant  of  hesitation,  care 
lessly  he  tossed  it  intact  into  the  waste-paper 
basket.  Toward  Rose  Gerard  he  swung  the 
revolving  chair. 

"Go  on,  please,"  he  commanded. 

The  girl  had  now  reached  the  climax  of  her 
story,  but  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Earle  betrayed  the 
fact  that  her  thoughts  were  elsewhere.  With  an 
intense  and  hungry  longing,  they  were  concen 
trated  upon  her  own  waste-paper  basket. 

The  voice  of  the  girl  in  anger  and  defiance 
recalled  Mrs.  Earle  to  the  business  of  the 
moment. 

"He  tried  to  kill  me,"  shouted  Miss  Rose. 
"And  his  shooting  himself  in  the  shoulder  was 
a  bluff.  That's  my  story;  that's  the  story  I'm 
going  to  tell  the  judge"- — her  voice  soared  shrilly 

"that's  the  story  that's  going  to  send  your 
brother-in-law  to  Sing  Sing!" 

For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Earle  contributed  to 
the  general  conversation. 

"You  talk  like  a  fish,"  she  said. 

The  girl  turned  upon  her  savagely. 

"If  he  don't  like  the  way  I  talk,"  she  cried, 
"he  can  come  across!" 

217 


THE  FRAME-UP 

Mrs.  Earle  exclaimed  in  horror.  Virtuously 
her  hands  were  raised  in  protest. 

"Like  hell  he  will!"  she  said.  "You  can't 
pull  that  under  my  roof!" 

Wharton  looked  disturbed. 

"Come  across'?"  he  asked. 

"Come  across?"  mimicked  the  girl.  "Send 
me  abroad  and  keep  me  there.  And  I'll  swear 
it  was  an  accident.  Twenty-five  thousand, 
that's  all  I  want.  Cutler  told  me  he  was  going 
to  make  you  governor.  He  can't  make  you 
governor  if  he's  in  Sing  Sing,  can  he?  Ain't  it 
worth  twenty-five  thousand  to  you  to  be  gover 
nor?  Come  on,"  she  jeered,  "kick  in!" 

With  a  grave  but  untroubled  voice  Wharton 
addressed  Mrs.  Earle. 

"May  I  use  your  telephone?"  he  asked.  He 
did  not  wait  for  her  consent,  but  from  the  desk 
lifted  the  hand  telephone. 

"Spring,  three  one  hundred!"  he  said.  He 
sat  with  his  legs  comfortably  crossed,  the  stand 
of  the  instrument  balanced  on  his  knee,  his  eyes 
gazing  meditatively  at  the  yellow  tree-tops. 

If  with  apprehension  both  women  started,  if 
the  girl  thrust  herself  forward,  and  by  the  hand 
of  Mrs.  Earle  was  dragged  back,  he  did  not 
appear  to  know  it. 

"Police  headquarters?"  they  heard  him  ask. 
"I  want  to  speak  to  the  commissioner.  This 
is  the  district  attorney." 

218 


THE   FRAME-UP 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  as  though  to  tor 
ment  her,  the  pain  in  her  side  apparently  re 
turned,  for  the  girl  screamed  sharply. 

"Be  still!"  commanded  the  older  woman. 
Breathless,  across  the  top  of  the  arm-chair, 
she  was  leaning  forward.  Upon  the  man  at 
the  telephone  her  eyes  were  fixed  in  fascina 
tion. 

"Commissioner,"  said  the  district  attorney, 
"this  is  Wharton  speaking.  A  woman  has  made 
a  charge  of  attempted  murder  to  me  against  my 
brother-in-law,  Hamilton  Cutler.  On  account 
of  our  relationship,  I  want  YOU  to  make  the 
arrest.  If  there  were  any  slip,  and  he  got  away, 
it  might  be  said  I  arranged  it.  You  will  find 
him  at  the  Winona  apartments  on  the  Southern 
Boulevard,  in  the  private  hospital  of  a  Doctor 
Samuel  Muir.  Arrest  them  both.  The  girl 
who  makes  the  charge  is  at  Kessler's  Cafe,  on 
the  Boston  Post  Road,  just  inside  the  city  line. 
Arrest  her  too.  She  tried  to  blackmail  me. 
I'll  appear  against  her." 

Wharton  rose  and  addressed  himself  to  Mrs. 
Earle. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I  had  to  do  it. 
You  might  have  known  I  could  not  hush  it  up. 
I  am  the  only  man  who  can't  hush  it  up.  The 
people  of  New  York  elected  me  to  enforce  the 
laws."  Wharton's  voice  was  raised  to  a  loud 
pitch.  It  seemed  unnecessarily  loud.  It  was 

210 


THE   FRAME-UP 

almost  as  though  he  were  addressing  another 
and  more  distant  audience.  "And,"  he  con 
tinued,  his  voice  still  soaring,  "even  if  my  own 
family  suffer,  even  if  I  suffer,  even  if  I  lose  po 
litical  promotion,  those  laws  I  will  enforce!" 

In  the  more  conventional  tone  of  every-day 
politeness,  he  added: 

"May  I  speak  to  you  outside,  Mrs.  Earle?" 

But,  as  in  silence  that  lady  descended  the 
stairs,  the  district  attorney  seemed  to  have 
forgotten  what  it  was  he  wished  to  say. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  seen  his  chauffeur 
arouse  himself  from  apparently  deep  slumber 
and  crank  the  car  that  he  addressed  her. 

"That  girl,"  he  said,  "had  better  go  back  to 
bed.  My  men  are  all  around  this  house  and, 
until  the  police  come,  will  detain  her." 

He  shook  the  jewelled  fingers  of  Mrs.  Earle 
warmly.  "I  thank  you,"  he  said;  "I  know  you 
meant  well.  I  know  you  wanted  to  help  me, 
but" — he  shrugged  his  shoulders — "my  duty!" 

As  he  walked  down  the  driveway  to  his  car 
his  shoulders  continued  to  move. 

But  Mrs.  Earle  did  not  wait  to  observe  this 
phenomenon.  Rid  of  his  presence,  she  leaped, 
rather  than  ran,  up  the  stairs  and  threw  open 
the  door  of  her  office. 

As  she  entered,  two  men  followed  her.  One 
was  a  young  man  who  held  in  his  hand  an  open 

220 


THE  FRAME-UP 

note-book,  the  other  was  Tim  Meehan,  of  Tam 
many.     The  latter  greeted  her  with  a  shout. 

"We  heard  everything  he  said!"  he  cried. 
His  voice  rose  in  torment.  "An'  we  can't  use 
a  word  of  it!  He  acted  just  like  we'd  oughta 
knowed  he'd  act.  He's  HONEST  !  He's  so  damned 
honest  he  ain't  human;  he's  a gilded  saint ! " 

Mrs.  Earle  did  not  heed  him.  On  her  knees 
she  was  tossing  to  the  floor  the  contents  of  the 
waste-paper  basket.  From  them  she  snatched 
a  piece  of  crumpled  paper. 

"  Shut  up ! "  she  shouted.  "  Listen !  His  chauf 
feur  brought  him  this."  In  a  voice  that  quivered 
with  indignation,  that  sobbed  with  anger,  she 
read  aloud: 

' '  As  directed  by  your  note  from  the  window, 
I  went  to  the  booth  and  called  up  Mrs.  Cutler's 
house  and  got  herself  on  the  phone.  Your 
brother-in-law  lunched  at  home  to-day  with  her 
and  the  children  and  they  are  now  going  to  the 
Hippodrome. 

"Stop,  look,  and  listen!  Back  of  the  bar  I 
see  two  men  in  a  room,  but  they  did  not  see  me. 
One  is  Tim  Meehan,  the  other  is  a  stenographer. 
He  is  taking  notes.  Each  of  them  has  on  the 
ear-muffs  of  a  dictagraph.  Looks  like  you'd 
better  watch  your  step  and  not  say  nothing 
you  don't  want  Tammany  to  print/ '  The 
voice  of  Mrs.  Earle  rose  in  a  shrill  shriek. 

221 


THE   FRAME-UP 

"Him — a  gilded  saint?'*  she  screamed;  "you 
big  stiff!  He  knew  he  was  talking  into  a  dicta 
graph  all  the  time — and  he  double-crossed 
us!" 


222 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 


If 


Weymo-uth  Street 


The  bt&ck  SQU&re  marks  the  position 
of  the  lost  house 


I 


IT  was  a  dull  day  at  the  chancellery.  His 
Excellency  the  American  Ambassador  was  ab 
sent  in  Scotland,  unveiling  a  bust  to  Bobby 
Burns,  paid  for  by  the  numerous  lovers  of  that 
poet  in  Pittsburg;  the  First  Secretary  was 
absent  at  Aldershot,  observing  a  sham  battle; 
the  Military  Attache  was  absent  at  the  Crystal 
Palace,  watching  a  foot-ball  match;  the  Naval 
Attache  was  absent  at  the  Duke  of  Deptford's, 
shooting  pheasants;  and  at  the  Embassy,  the 
Second  Secretary,  having  lunched  leisurely  at 

223 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

the  Ritz,  was  now  alone,  but  prepared  with  his 
life  to  protect  American  interests.  Accordingly, 
on  the  condition  that  the  story  should  not  be 
traced  back  to  him,  he  had  just  confided  a 
State  secret  to  his  young  friend,  Austin  Ford, 
the  London  correspondent  of  the  New  York 
Republic. 

"I  will  cable  it,"  Ford  reassured  him,  "as 
coming  from  a  Hungarian  diplomat,  temporarily 
residing  in  Bloomsbury,  while  en  route  to  his 
post  in  Patagonia.  In  that  shape,  not  even 
your  astute  chief  will  suspect  its  real  source. 
And  further  from  the  truth  than  that  I  refuse  to 

"What  I  dropped  in  to  ask,"  he  continued, 
"is  whether  the  English  are  going  to  send  over  a 
polo  team  next  summer  to  try  to  bring  back 
the  cup?" 

"I've  several  other  items  of  interest,"  sug 
gested  the  Secretary. 

"The  week-end  parties  to  which  you  have 
been  invited,"  Ford  objected,  "can  wait.  Tell 
me  first  what  chance  there  is  for  an  international 
polo  match." 

"Polo,"  sententiously  began  the  Second  Secre 
tary,  who  himself  was  a  crackerjack  at  the 
game,  "is  a  proposition  of  ponies !  Men  can 
be  trained  for  polo.  But  polo  ponies  must  be 

born.     Without  good  ponies " 

224 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

James,  the  page  who  guarded  the  outer  walls 
of  the  chancellery,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Please,  sir,  a  person,"  he  announced,  "with 
a  note  for  the  Ambassador.  'E  says  it's  im 
portant." 

"Tell  him  to  leave  it,"  said  the  Secretary. 
"Polo  ponies 

"Yes,  sir,"  interrupted  the  page.  "But  'e 
wont  leave  it,  not  unless  he  keeps  the  'arf- 
crown." 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  protested  the  Second 
Secretary,  "then  let  him  keep  the  half-crown. 
When  I  say  polo  ponies,  I  don't  mean ' 

James,  although  alarmed  at  his  own  temerity, 
refused  to  accept  the  dismissal. 

"But,  please,  sir,"  he  begged;  "I  think  the 
'arf-crown  is  for  the  Ambassador." 

The  astonished  diplomat  gazed  with  open 
eyes. 

"You  think — what!"  he  exclaimed. 

James,  upon  the  defensive,  explained  breath 
lessly. 

"Because,  sir,"  he  stammered,  "it  was  inside 
the  note  when  it  was  thrown  out  of  the  window." 

Ford  had  been  sprawling  in  a  soft  leather  chair 
in  front  of  the  open  fire.  With  the  privilege  of 
an  old  school-fellow  and  college  classmate,  he 
had  been  jabbing  the  soft  coal  with  his  walking- 
stick,  causing  it  to  burst  into  tiny  flames.  His 

225 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

cigarette  drooped  from  his  lips,  his  hat  was 
cocked  over  one  eye;  he  was  a  picture  of  in 
difference,  merging  upon  boredom.  But  at  the 
words  of  the  boy  his  attitude  both  of  mind  and 
body  underwent  an  instant  change.  It  was  as 
though  he  were  an  actor,  and  the  words  "thrown 
from  the  window"  were  his  cue.  It  was  as 
though  he  were  a  dozing  fox-terrier,  and  the 
voice  of  his  master  had  whispered  in  his  ear: 
"Sick 'em!" 

For  a  moment,  with  benign  reproach,  the 
Second  Secretary  regarded  the  unhappy  page, 
and  then  addressed  him  with  laborious  sarcasm. 

"James,"  he  said,  "people  do  not  communi 
cate  with  ambassadors  in  notes  wrapped  around 
half-crowns  and  hurled  from  windows.  That  is 
the  way  one  corresponds  with  an  organ-grinder." 

Ford  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"And  meanwhile,"  he  exclaimed  angrily,  "the 
man  will  get  away." 

Without  seeking  permission,  he  ran  past 
James,  and  through  the  empty  outer  offices. 
In  two  minutes  he  returned,  herding  before  him 
an  individual,  seedy  and  soiled.  In  appearance 
the  man  suggested  that  in  life  his  place  was  to 
support  a  sandwich-board.  Ford  reluctantly 
relinquished  his  hold  upon  a  folded  paper  which 
he  laid  in  front  of  the  Secretary. 

"This  man,"  he  explained,  "picked  that  out 
226 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

of  the  gutter  in  Sowell  Street.     It's  not  addressed 
to  any  one,  so  you  read  it!" 

"I  thought  it  was  for  the  Ambassador!"  said 
the  Secretary. 

The  soiled  person  coughed  deprecatingly,  and 
pointed  a  dirty  digit  at  the  paper.  "On  the 
inside,"  he  suggested.  The  paper  was  wrapped 
around  a  half-crown  and  folded  in  at  each  end. 
The  diplomat  opened  it  hesitatingly,  but  having 
read  what  was  written,  laughed. 

"There's  nothing  in  that"  he  exclaimed.  He 
passed  the  note  to  Ford.  The  reporter  fell  upon 
it  eagerly. 

The  note  was  written  in  pencil  on  an  unruled 
piece  of  white  paper.  The  handwriting  was 
that  of  a  woman.  What  Ford  read  was: 

"I  am  a  prisoner  in  the  street  on  which  this 
paper  is  found.  The  house  faces  east.  I  think 
I  am  on  t  ,e  top  story.  I  was  brought  here  three 
weeks  ago.  They  are  trying  to  kill  me.  My 
uncle,  Charles  Ralph  Pearsall,  is  doing  this  to 
get  my  money.  He  is  at  Gerridge's  Hotel  in 
Craven  Street,  Strand.  He  will  tell  you  I  am 
insane.  My  name  is  Dosia  Pearsall  Dale.  My 
home  is  at  Dalesville,  Kentucky,  U.  S.  A. 
Everybody  knows  me  there,  and  knows  I  am 
not  insane.  If  you  would  save  a  life  take  this 
at  once  to  the  American  Embassy,  or  to  Scot 
land  Yard.  For  God's  sake,  help  me." 

227 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

When  he  had  read  the  note,  Ford  continued 
to  study  it.  Until  he  was  quite  sure  his  voice 
would  not  betray  his  interest,  he  did  not  raise 
his  eyes. 

"Why,"  he  asked,  "did  you  say  that  there's 
nothing  in  this?" 

"Because,"  returned  the  diplomat  conclu 
sively,  "we  got  a  note  like  that,  or  nearly  like 
it,  a  week  ago,  and ' 

Ford  could  not  restrain  a  groan.  "And  you 
never  told  me!" 

"There  wasn't  anything  to  tell,"  protested 
the  diplomat.  "We  handed  it  over  to  the 
police,  and  they  reported  there  was  nothing  in 
it.  They  couldn't  find  the  man  at  that  hotel, 
and,  of  course,  they  couldn't  find  the  house 
with  no  more  to  go  on  than " 

"And  so,"  exclaimed  Ford  rudely,  "they 
decided  there  was  no  man,  and  no  house!" 

"Their  theory,"  continued  the  Secretary  pa 
tiently,  "is  that  the  girl  is  confined  in  one  of 
the  numerous  private  sanatoriums  in  Sowell 
Street,  that  she  is  insane,  that  because  she's 
under  restraint  she  imagines  the  nurses  are 
trying  to  kill  her  and  that  her  relatives  are 
after  her  money.  Insane  people  are  always 
thinking  that.  It's  a  very  common  delu 
sion." 

Ford's  eyes  were  shining  with  a  wicked  joy. 
228 


THE   LOST  HOUSE 

"So,"  he  asked  indifferently,  "you  don't  intend 
to  do  anything  further?" 

"What  do  you  want  us  to  do?"  cried  his 
friend.  "Ring  every  door-bell  in  Sowell  Street, 
and  ask  the  parlor-maid  if  they're  murdering  a 
lady  on  the  top  story?" 

"Can  I  keep  the  paper?"  demanded  Ford. 

"You  can  keep  a  copy  of  it,"  consented  the 
Secretary.  "But  if  you  think  you're  on  the 
track  of  a  big  newspaper  sensation,  I  can  tell 
you  now  you're  not.  That's  the  work  of  a 
crazy  woman,  or  it's  a  hoax.  You  amateur 
detectives 

Ford  was  already  seated  at  the  table,  scrib 
bling  a  copy  of  the  message,  and  making  mar 
ginal  notes. 

"Who  brought  the  first  paper?"  he  inter 
rupted. 

"A  hansom-cab  driver." 

"What  became  of  him?"  snapped  the  amateur 
detective. 

The  Secretary  looked  inquiringly  at  James. 

"E  drove  away,"  said  James. 

"He  drove  away,  did  he?"  roared  Ford. 
"And  that  was  a  week  ago!  Ye  gods!  What 
about  Dalesville,  Kentucky?  Did  you  cable 
any  one  there?" 

The  dignity  of  the  diplomat  was  becoming 
ruffled. 

229 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"We  did  not!"  he  answered.  "If  it  wasn't 
true  that  her  uncle  was  at  that  hotel,  it  was 
probably  equally  untrue  that  she  had  friends 
in  America." 

"But,"  retorted  his  friend,  "you  didn't  forget 
to  cable  the  State  Department  that  you  all  went 
in  your  evening  clothes  to  bow  to  the  new  King? 
You  didn't  neglect  to  cable  that,  did  you?" 

"The  State  Department,"  returned  the  Secre 
tary,  with  withering  reproof,  "does  not  expect 
us  to  crawl  over  the  roofs  of  houses  and  spy 
down  chimneys  to  see  if  by  any  chance  an 
American  citizen  is  being  murdered." 

"Well,"  exclaimed  Ford,  leaping  to  his  feet 
and  placing  his  notes  in  his  pocket,  "fortunately, 
my  paper  expects  me  to  do  just  that,  and  if  it 
didn't,  I'd  do  it  anyway.  And  that  is  exactly 
what  I  am  going  to  do  now !  Don't  tell  the 
others  in  the  Embassy,  and,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
don't  tell  the  police.  Jimmy,  get  me  a  taxi. 
And  you,"  he  commanded,  pointing  at  the  one 
who  had  brought  the  note,  "are  coming  with  me 
to  Sowell  Street,  to  show  me  where  you  picked 
up  that  paper." 

On  the  way  to  Sowell  Street  Ford  stopped  at 
a  newspaper  agency,  and  paid  for  the  insertion 
that  afternoon  of  the  same  advertisement  in 
three  newspapers.  It  read:  "If  hansom-cab 
driver  who  last  week  carried  note,  found  in 

230 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

street,  to  American  Embassy  will  mail  his  ad 
dress  to  X.  X.  X.,  care  of  Globe,  he  will  be  re 
warded." 

From  the  nearest  post-office  he  sent  to  his 
paper  the  following  cable:  "Query  our  local 
correspondent,  Dalesville,  Kentucky,  concern 
ing  Dosia  Pearsall  Dale.  Is  she  of  sound  mind, 
is  she  heiress.  Who  controls  her  money,  what 
her  business  relations  with  her  uncle,  Charles 
Ralph  Pearsall,  what  her  present  address.  If 
any  questions,  say  inquiries  come  from  solicitors 
of  Englishman  who  wants  to  marry  her.  Rush 
answer." 

Sowell  Street  is  a  dark,  dirty  little  thorough 
fare,  running  for  only  one  block,  parallel  to 
Harley  Street.  Like  it,  it  is  decorated  with  the 
brass  plates  of  physicians  and  the  red  lamps  of 
surgeons,  but,  just  as  the  medical  men  in  Harley 
Street,  in  keeping  with  that  thoroughfare,  are 
broad,  open,  and  with  nothing  to  conceal,  so 
those  of  Sowell  Street,  like  their  hiding-place, 
shrink  from  observation,  and  their  lives  are  as 
sombre,  secret,  and  dark  as  the  street  itself. 

Within  two  turns  of  it  Ford  dismissed  the 
taxicab.  Giving  the  soiled  person  a  half- 
smoked  cigarette,  he  told  him  to  walk  through 
Sowell  Street,  and  when  he  reached  the  place 
where  he  had  picked  up  the  paper,  to  drop  the 
cigarette  as  near  that  spot  as  possible.  He 

231 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

then  was  to  turn  into  Weymouth  Street  and 
wait  until  Ford  joined  him.  At  a  distance  of 
fifty  feet  Ford  followed  the  man,  and  saw  him, 
when  in  the  middle  of  the  block,  without  appar 
ent  hesitation,  drop  the  cigarette.  The  house 
in  front  of  which  it  fell  was  marked,  like  many 
others,  by  the  brass  plate  of  a  doctor.  As  Ford 
passed  it  he  hit  the  cigarette  with  his  walking- 
stick,  and  drove  it  into  an  area.  When  he 
overtook  the  man,  Ford  handed  him  another 
cigarette.  "To  make  sure,"  he  said,  "go  back 
and  drop  this  in  the  place  you  found  the  pa 
per." 

For  a  moment  the  man  hesitated. 

"I  might  as  well  tell  you,"  Ford  continued, 
"that  I  knocked  that  last  cigarette  so  far  from 
where  you  dropped  it  that  you  won't  be  able  to 
use  it  as  a  guide.  So,  if  you  don't  really  know 
where  you  found  the  paper,  you'll  save  my  time 
by  saying  so." 

Instead  of  being  confused  by  the  test,  the 
man  was  amused  by  it.  He  laughed  appre 
ciatively. 

"You've  caught  me  out  fair,  governor,"  he 
admitted.  "I  wanted  the  'arf-crown,  and  I 
dropped  the  cigarette  as  near  the  place  as  I 
could.  But  I  can't  do  it  again.  It  was  this 
way,"  he  explained.  "I  wasn't  taking  notice 
of  the  houses.  I  was  walking  along  looking 

232 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

into  the  gutter  for  stumps.  I  see  this  paper 
wrapped  about  something  round.  'It's  a  cop 
per,'  I  thinks,  'jucked  out  of  a  winder  to  a 
organ-grinder/  I  snatches  it,  and  runs.  I 
didn't  take  no  time  to  look  at  the  houses.  But 
it  wasn't  so  far  from  where  I  showed  you; 
about  the  middle  house  in  the  street  and  on  the 
left-'and  side." 

Ford  had  never  considered  the  man  as  a 
serious  element  in  the  problem.  He  believed 
him  to  know  as  little  of  the  matter  as  he  pro 
fessed  to  know.  But  it  was  essential  he  should 
keep  that  little  to  himself. 

"No  one  will  pay  you  for  talking,"  Ford 
pointed  out,  "and  I'll  pay  you  to  keep  quiet. 
So,  if  you  say  nothing  concerning  that  note,  at 
the  end  of  two  weeks,  I'll  leave  two  pounds  for 
you  with  James,  at  the  Embassy." 

The  man,  who  believed  Ford  to  be  an  agent 
of  the  police,  was  only  too  happy  to  escape  on 
such  easy  terms.  After  Ford  had  given  him  a 
pound  on  account,  they  parted. 

From  Wimpole  Street  the  amateur  detective 
went  to  the  nearest  public  telephone  and  called 
up  Gerridge's  Hotel.  He  considered  his  first 
step  should  be  to  discover  if  Mr.  Pearsall  was 
at  that  hotel,  or  had  ever  stopped  there.  When 
the  'phone  was  answered,  he  requested  that  a 
message  be  delivered  to  Mr.  Pearsall. 

233 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"Please  tell  him/*  he  asked,  "that  the  clothes 
he  ordered  are  ready  to  try  on." 

He  was  informed  that  no  one  by  that  name 
was  at  the  hotel.  In  a  voice  of  concern  Ford 
begged  to  know  when  Mr.  Pearsall  had  gone 
away,  and  had  he  left  any  address. 

"He  was  with  you  three  weeks  ago,"  Ford 
insisted.  "He's  an  American  gentleman,  and 
there  was  a  lady  with  him.  She  ordered  a 
riding-habit  of  us:  the  same  time  he  was 
measured  for  his  clothes." 

After  a  short  delay,  the  voice  from  the  hotel 
replied  that  no  one  of  the  name  of  Pearsall  had 
been  at  the  hotel  that  winter. 

In  apparent  great  disgust  Ford  rang  off,  and 
took  a  taxicab  to  his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street. 
There  he  packed  a  suit-case  and  drove  to  Ger- 
ridge's.  It  was  a  quiet,  respectable,  "old- 
established"  house  in  Craven  Street,  a  thorough 
fare  almost  entirely  given  over  to  small  family 
hotels  much  frequented  by  Americans. 

After  he  had  registered  and  had  left  his  bag 
in  his  room,  Ford  returned  to  the  office,  and  in 
an  assured  manner  asked  that  a  card  on  which 
he  had  written  "Henry  W.  Page,  Dalesville, 
Kentucky,"  should  be  taken  to  Mr.  Pearsall. 

In  a  tone  of  obvious  annoyance  the  pro 
prietor  returned  the  card,  saying  that  there  was 
no  one  of  that  name  in  the  hotel,  and  added 

234 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

that  no  such  person  had  ever  stopped  there. 
Ford  expressed  the  liveliest  distress. 

"He  told  me  I'd  find  him  here,"  he  protested, 
"he  and  his  niece."  With  the  garrulousness  of 
the  American  abroad,  he  confided  his  troubles 
to  the  entire  staff  of  the  hotel.  "We're  from 
the  same  town,"  he  explained.  "That's  why  I 
must  see  him.  He's  the  only  man  in  London  I 
know,  and  I've  spent  all  my  money.  He  said 
he'd  give  me  some  he  owes  me,  as  soon  as  I 
reached  London.  If  I  can't  get  it,  I'll  have  to 
go  home  by  Wednesday's  steamer.  And,"  he 
complained  bitterly,  "I  haven't  seen  the  Zoo, 
nor  the  Tower,  nor  Westminster  Abbey." 

In  a  moment,  Ford's  anxiety  to  meet  Mr. 
Pearsall  was  apparently  lost  in  a  wave  of  self- 
pity.  In  his  disappointment  he  became  an 
appealing,  pathetic  figure. 

Real  detectives  and  rival  newspaper  men,  even 
while  they  admitted  Ford  obtained  facts  that 
were  denied  them,  claimed  that  they  were 
given  him  from  charity.  Where  they  bullied, 
browbeat,  and  administered  a  third  degree,  Ford 
was  embarrassed,  deprecatory,  an  earnest,  in 
genuous,  wide-eyed  child.  What  he  called  his 
"working"  smile  begged  of  you  not  to  be  cross 
with  him.  His  simplicity  was  apparently  so 
hopeless,  his  confidence  in  whomever  he  ad 
dressed  so  complete,  that  often  even  the  man 

235 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

he  was  pursuing  felt  for  him  a  pitying  contempt. 
Now  as  he  stood  uncertainly  in  the  hall  of  the 
hotel,  his  helplessness  moved  the  proud  lady 
clerk  to  shake  her  cylinders  of  false  hair  sym 
pathetically,  the  German  waiters  to  regard  his 
predicament  with  respect;  even  the  proprietor, 
Mr.  Gerridge  himself,  was  ill  at  ease.  Ford 
returned  to  his  room,  on  the  second  floor  of  the 
hotel,  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

In  connecting  Pearsall  with  Gerridge's,  both 
the  police  and  himself  had  failed.  Of  this  there 
were  three  possible  explanations:  that  the  girl 
who  wrote  the  letter  was  in  error,  that  the  letter 
was  a  hoax,  that  the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  for 
some  reason,  was  protecting  Pearsall,  and  had 
deceived  both  Ford  and  Scotland  Yard.  On  the 
other  hand,  without  knowing  why  the  girl  be 
lieved  Pearsall  would  be  found  at  Gerridge's, 
it  was  reasonable  to  assume  that  in  so  thinking 
she  had  been  purposely  misled.  The  question 
was,  should  he  or  not  dismiss  Gerridge's  as  a 
possible  clew,  and  at  once  devote  himself  to 
finding  the  house  in  Sowell  Street?  He  decided, 
for  the  moment  at  least,  to  leave  Gerridge's  out 
of  his  calculations,  but,  as  an  excuse  for  return 
ing  there,  to  still  retain  his  room.  He  at  once 
started  toward  Sowell  Street,  and  in  order  to 
find  out  if  any  one  from  the  hotel  were  following 
him,  he  set  forth  on  foot.  As  soon  as  he  made 

236 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

sure  he  was  not  spied  upon,  he  covered  the 
remainder  of  the  distance  in  a  cab. 

He  was  acting  on  the  supposition  that  the 
letter  was  no  practical  joke,  but  a  genuine  cry 
for  help.  Sowell  Street  was  a  scene  set  for  such 
an  adventure.  It  was  narrow,  mean- looking, 
the  stucco  house- fronts,  soot-stained,  cracked, 
and  uncared-for,  the  steps  broken  and  un 
washed.  As  he  entered  it  a  cold  rain  was  fall 
ing,  and  a  yellow  fog  that  rolled  between  the 
houses  added  to  its  dreariness. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  so 
overcast  the  sky  that  in  many  rooms  the  gas 
was  lit  and  the  curtains  drawn. 

The  girl,  apparently  from  observing  the  daily 
progress  of  the  sun,  had  written  she  was  on  the 
west  side  of  the  street  and,  she  believed,  in  an 
upper  story.  The  man  who  picked  up  the  note 
had  said  he  had  found  it  opposite  the  houses  in 
the  middle  of  the  block.  Accordingly,  Ford 
proceeded  on  the  supposition  that  the  entire 
east  side  of  the  street,  the  lower  stories  of  the 
west  side,  and  the  houses  at  each  end  were 
eliminated.  The  three  houses  in  the  centre  of 
the  row  were  outwardly  alike.  They  were  of 
four  stories.  Each  was  the  residence  of  a 
physician,  and  in  each,  in  the  upper  stories,  the 
blinds  were  drawn.  From  the  front  there  was 
nothing  to  be  learned,  and  in  the  hope  that  the 

237 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

rear  might  furnish  some  clew,  Ford  hastened  to 
Wimpole  Street,  in  which  the  houses  to  the  east 
backed  upon  those  to  the  west  in  Sowell  Street. 
These  houses  were  given  over  to  furnished 
lodgings,  and  under  the  pretext  of  renting 
chambers,  it  was  easy  for  Ford  to  enter  them, 
and  from  the  apartments  in  the  rear  to  obtain 
several  hasty  glimpses  of  the  backs  of  the  three 
houses  in  Sowell  Street.  But  neither  from  this 
view-point  did  he  gather  any  fact  of  interest. 
In  one  of  the  three  houses  in  Sowell  Street  iron 
bars  were  fastened  across  the  windows  of  the 
fourth  floor,  but  in  private  sanatoriums  this 
was  neither  unusual  nor  suspicious.  The  bars 
might  cover  the  windows  of  a  nursery  to  prevent 
children  from  falling  out,  or  the  room  of  some 
timid  householder  with  a  lively  fear  of  burglars. 
In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Ford  was  again  back 
in  Sowell  Street  no  wiser  than  when  he  had 
entered  it.  From  the  outside,  at  least,  the  three 
houses  under  suspicion  gave  no  sign.  In  the 
problem  before  him  there  was  one  point  that 
Ford  found  difficult  to  explain.  It  was  the 
only  one  that  caused  him  to  question  if  the 
letter  was  genuine.  What  puzzled  him  was 
this:  Why,  if  the  girl  were  free  to  throw  two 
notes  from  the  window,  did  she  not  throw  them 
out  by  the  dozen?  If  she  were  able  to  reach  a 
window,  opening  on  the  street,  why  did  she  not 

238 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

call  for  help?  Why  did  she  not,  by  hurling 
out  every  small  article  the  room  contained,  by 
screams,  by  breaking  the  window-panes,  attract 
a  crowd,  and,  through  it,  the  police?  That  she 
had  not  done  so  seemed  to  show  that  only  at 
rare  intervals  was  she  free  from  restraint,  or  at 
liberty  to  enter  the  front  room  that  opened  on 
the  street.  Would  it  be  equally  difficult,  Ford 
asked  himself,  for  one  in  the  street  to  communi 
cate  with  her?  What  signal  could  he  give  that 
would  draw  an  answering  signal  from  the  girl? 
Standing  at  the  corner,  hidden  by  the  pillars 
of  a  portico,  the  water  dripping  from  his  rain 
coat,  Ford  gazed  long  and  anxiously  at  the  blank 
windows  of  the  three  houses.  Like  blind  eyes 
staring  into  his,  they  told  no  tales,  betrayed  no 
secret.  Around  him  the  commonplace  life  of 
the  neighborhood  proceeded  undisturbed.  Some 
where  concealed  in  the  single  row  of  houses  a 
girl  was  imprisoned,  her  life  threatened;  perhaps 
even  at  that  moment  she  was  facing  her  death. 
While,  on  either  side,  shut  from  her  by  the 
thickness  only  of  a  brick  wall,  people  were 
talking,  reading,  making  tea,  preparing  the 
evening  meal,  or,  in  the  street  below,  hurrying 
by,  intent  on  trivial  errands.  Hansom  cabs, 
prowling  in  search  of  a  fare,  passed  through  the 
street  where  a  woman  was  being  robbed  of  a 
fortune,  the  drivers  occupied  only  with  thoughts 

239 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

of  a  possible  shilling;  a  housemaid  with  a  jug 
in  her  hand  and  a  shawl  over  her  bare  head, 
hastened  to  the  near-by  public-house;  the  post 
man  made  his  rounds,  and  delivered  comic 
postal-cards;  a  policeman,  shedding  water  from 
his  shining  cape,  halted,  gazed  severely  at  the 
sky,  and,  unconscious  of  the  crime  that  was  going 
forward  within  the  sound  of  his  own  footsteps, 
continued  stolidly  into  Wimpole  Street. 

A  hundred  plans  raced  through  Ford's  brain; 
he  would  arouse  the  street  writh  a  false  alarm  of 
fire  and  lead  the  firemen,  with  the  tale  of  a 
smoking  chimney,  to  one  of  the  three  houses; 
he  would  feign  illness,  and,  taking  refuge  in  one 
of  them,  at  night  would  explore  the  premises; 
he  would  impersonate  a  detective,  and  insist 
upon  his  right  to  search  for  stolen  property. 
As  he  rejected  these  and  a  dozen  schemes  as 
fantastic,  his  brain  and  eyes  were  still  alert  for 
any  chance  advantage  that  the  street  might 
offer.  But  the  minutes  passed  into  an  hour, 
and  no  one  had  entered  any  of  the  three  houses, 
no  one  had  left  them.  In  the  lower  stories, 
from  behind  the  edges  of  the  blinds,  lights 
appeared,  but  of  the  life  within  there  was  no 
sign.  Until  he  hit  upon  a  plan  of  action,  Ford 
felt  there  was  no  longer  anything  to  be  gained 
by  remaining  in  Sowell  Street. 

Already  the  answer  to  his  cable  might  have 
240 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

arrived  at  his  rooms ;  at  Gerridge's  he  might  still 
learn  something  of  Pearsall.  He  decided  to 
revisit  both  these  places,  and,  while  so  engaged, 
to  send  from  his  office  one  of  his  assistants  to 
cover  the  Sowell  Street  houses.  He  cast  a 
last,  reluctant  look  at  the  closed  blinds,  and 
moved  away.  As  he  did  so,  two  itinerant 
musicians  dragging  behind  them  a  small  street 
piano  on  wheels  turned  the  corner,  and,  as  the 
rain  had  now  ceased,  one  of  them  pulled  the 
oil-cloth  covering  from  the  instrument  and, 
seating  himself  on  a  camp-stool  at  the  curb, 
opened  the  piano.  After  a  discouraged  glance 
at  the  darkened  windows,  the  other,  in  a  hoarse, 
strident  tenor,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the 
piano,  began  to  sing.  The  voice  of  the  man 
was  raucous,  penetrating.  It  would  have  reached 
the  recesses  of  a  tomb. 

"She  sells  sea-shells  on  the  sea-shore,"  the 
vocalist  wailed.  "The  shells  she  sells  are  sea- 
shells,  I'm  sure." 

The  effect  was  instantaneous.  A  window  was 
flung  open,  and  an  indignant  householder  with 
one  hand  frantically  waved  the  musicians  away, 
and  with  the  other  threw  them  a  copper  coin. 

At  the  same  moment  Ford  walked  quickly  to 
the  piano  and  laid  a  half-crown  on  top  of  it. 

"Follow  me  to  Harley  Street,"  he  commanded. 
"Don't  hurry.  Take  your  time.  I  want  you  to 

241 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

help  me  in  a  sort  of  practical  joke.  It's  worth  a 
sovereign  to  you." 

He  passed  on  quickly.  When  he  glanced  be 
hind  him,  he  saw  the  two  men,  fearful  lest  the 
promised  fortune  might  escape  them,  pursuing 
him  at  a  trot.  At  Harley  Street  they  halted, 
breathless. 

"How  long,"  Ford  demanded  of  the  one  who 
played  the  piano,  "will  it  take  you  to  learn  the 
accompaniment  to  a  new  song?" 

"While  you're  whistling  it,"  answered  the 
man  eagerly. 

"And  I'm  as  quick  at  a  tune  as  him,"  assured 
the  other  anxiously.  "I  can  sing " 

''You  cannot,"  interrupted  Ford.  "  I'm  going 
to  do  the  singing  myself.  Where  is  there  a  pub 
lic-house  near  here  where  we  can  hire  a  back 
room,  and  rehearse?" 

Half  an  hour  later,  Ford  and  the  piano-player 
entered  Sowell  Street  dragging  the  piano  behind 
them.  The  amateur  detective  still  wore  his 
rain-coat,  but  his  hat  he  had  exchanged  for  a 
cap,  and,  instead  of  a  collar,  he  had  knotted 
around  his  bare  neck  a  dirty  kerchief.  At  the 
end  of  the  street  they  halted,  and  in  some 
embarrassment  Ford  raised  his  voice  in  the 
chorus  of  a  song  well  known  in  the  music-halls. 
It  was  a  very  good  voice,  much  too  good  for 
"open-air  work,"  as  his  companion  had  already 

242 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

assured  him,  but,  what  was  of  chief  importance 
to  Ford,  it  carried  as  far  as  he  wished  it  to  go. 
Already  in  Wimpole  Street  four  coins  of  the 
realm,  flung  to  him  from  the  highest  windows, 
had  testified  to  its  power.  From  the  end  of 
Sowell  Street  Ford  moved  slowly  from  house  to 
house  until  he  was  directly  opposite  the  three 
in  one  of  which  he  believed  the  girl  to  be. 

"We  will  try  the  new  songs  here,"  he  said. 

Night  had  fallen,  and,  except  for  the  gas- 
lamps,  the  street  was  empty,  and  in  such  dark 
ness  that  even  without  his  disguise  Ford  ran  no 
risk  of  recognition.  His  plan  was  not  new.  It 
dated  from  the  days  of  Richard  the  Lion- 
hearted.  But  if  the  prisoner  were  alert  and 
intelligent,  even  though  she  could  make .  no 
answer,  Ford  believed  through  his  effort  she 
would  gain  courage,  would  grasp  that  from  the 
outside  a  friend  was  working  toward  her.  AH 
he  knew  of  the  prisoner  was  that  she  came  from 
Kentucky.  Ford  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  houses 
opposite,  and  cleared  his  throat.  The  man 
struck  the  opening  chords,  and  in  a  high  bary 
tone,  and  in  a  cockney  accent  that  made  even 
the  accompanist  grin,  Ford  lifted  his  voice. 

"The  sun  shines  bright  on  my  old  Kentucky 
home,"  he  sang;  "'tis  summer,  and  the  darkies 
are  gay." 

He  finished  the  song,  but  there  was  no  sign. 
243 


THE   LOST  HOUSE 

For  all  the  impression  he  had  made  upon  Sowell 
Street,  he  might  have  been  singing  in  his  cham 
bers.  "And  now  the  other,"  commanded  Ford. 
The  house-fronts  echoed  back  the  cheering  notes 
of  "Dixie."  Again  Ford  was  silent,  and  again 
Jie  silence  answered  him.  The  accompanist 
glared  disgustedly  at  the  darkened  windows. 

'They  don't  know  them  songs,"  he  explained 
professionally.  "Give  'em  'MoIIie  Married  the 
Marquis/  ' 

"I'll  sing  the  first  one  again,"  said  Ford. 

Once  more  he  broke  into  the  pathetic  cadences 
of  the  "Old  Kentucky  Home."  But  there  was 
no  response.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  angry, 
absurd.  He  believed  he  had  wasted  precious 
moments,  and,  even  as  he  sang,  his  mind  was 
already  working  upon  a  new  plan.  The  song 
ceased,  unfinished. 

"It's  no  use!"  he  exclaimed.  Remember 
ing  himself,  he  added:  "We'll  try  the  next 
street." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  he  leaped  forward. 
Coming  apparently  from  nowhere,  something 
white  sank  through  the  semi-darkness  and  fell 
at  his  feet.  It  struck  the  pavement  directly  in 
front  of  the  middle  one  of  the  three  houses. 
Ford  fell  upon  it  and  clutched  it  in  both  hands. 
It  was  a  woman's  glove.  Ford  raced  back  to 
the  piano. 

244 


In  a  cockney  accent  that  made  even  the  accompanist 
grin,  Ford  lifted  his  voice. 


THE   LOST  HOUSE 

"Once  more,"  he  cried,  "play  'Dixie'!" 
He  shouted  out  the  chorus  exultantly,  trium 
phantly.     Had  he  spoken  it  in  words,  the  mes 
sage  could  not  have  carried  more  clearly. 

Ford  now  believed  he  had  found  the  house, 
found  the  woman,  and  was  eager  only  to  get  rid 
of  his  companion  and,  in  his  own  person,  return 
to  Sowell  Street.  But,  lest  the  man  might  sus 
pect  there  was  in  his  actions  something  more 
serious  than  a  practical  joke,  he  forced  himself 
to  sing  the  new  songs  in  three  different  streets. 
Then,  pretending  to  tire  of  his  prank,  he  paid 
the  musician  and  left  him.  He  was  happy, 
exultant,  tingling  with  excitement.  Good-luck 
had  been  with  him,  and,  hoping  that  Gerridge's 
might  yet  yield  some  clew  to  Pearsall,  he  re 
turned  there.  Calling  up  the  London  office  of 
the  Republic,  he  directed  that  one  of  his  as 
sistants,  an  English  lad  named  Cuthbert,  should 
at  once  join  him  at  that  hotel.  Cuthbert  was 
but  just  out  of  Oxford.  He  wished  to  become 
a  writer  of  fiction,  and,  as  a  means  of  seeing 
many  kinds  of  life  at  first  hand,  was  in  training 
as  a  "Pressman/'  His  admiration  for  Ford 
amounted  to  almost  hero-worship;  and  he 
regarded  an  "assignment"  with  his  chief  as  a 
joy  and  an  honor.  Full  of  enthusiasm,  and  as 
soon  as  a  taxicab  could  bring  him,  he  arrived 
at  Gerridge's,  where,  in  a  corner  of  the  deserted 

245 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

coffee-room,  Ford  explained  the  situation.  Until 
he  could  devise  a  way  to  enter  the  Sowell  Street 
house.  Cuthbert  was  to  watch  over  it. 

"The  number  of  the  house  is  forty,"  Ford 
told  him;  "the  name  on  the  door-plate,  Dr. 
Prothero.  Find  out  everything  you  can  about 
him  without  letting  any  one  catch  you  at  it. 
Better  begin  at  the  nearest  chemist's.  Say  you 
are  on  the  verge  of  a  nervous  breakdown,  and 
ask  the  man  to  mix  you  a  sedative,  and  recom 
mend  a  physician.  Show  him  Prothero's  name 
and  address  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  say  Pro 
thero  has  been  recommended  to  you  as  a  special 
ist  on  nervous  troubles.  Ask  what  he  thinks  of 
him.  Get  him  to  talk.  Then  visit  the  trades 
people  and  the  public-houses  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  say  you  are  from  some  West  End 
shop  where  Prothero  wants  to  open  an  account. 
They  may  talk,  especially  if  his  credit  is  bad. 
And,  if  you  find  out  enough  about  him  to  give 
me  a  working  basis,  I'll  try  to  get  into  the  house 
to-night.  Meanwhile,  I'm  going  to  make  an 
other  quick  search  of  this  hotel  for  Pearsall. 
I'm  not  satisfied  he  has  not  been  here.  For 
why  should  Miss  Dale,  with  all  the  hotels  in 
London  to  choose  from,  have  named  this  par 
ticular  one,  unless  she  had  good  reason  for  it? 
Now,  go,  and  meet  me  in  an  hour  in  Sowell 
Street." 

246 


THE   LOST  HOUSE 

Cuthbert  was  at  the  door  when  he  remembered 
he  had  brought  with  him  from  the  office  Ford's 
mail  and  cablegrams.  Among  the  latter  was 
the  one  for  which  Ford  had  asked. 

"Wait,"  he  commanded.  "This  is  about  the 
girl.  You  had  better  know  what  it  says." 

The  cable  read: 

"Girl  orphan,  Dalesville  named  after  her 
family,  for  three  generations  mill-owners,  father 
died  four  years  ago,  Pearsall  brother-in-law 
made  executor  and  guardian  of  niece  until  she 
is  twenty-one,  wrhich  will  be  in  three  months. 
Girl  well  known,  extremely  popular,  lived  Dales 
ville  until  last  year,  when  went  abroad  with 
uncle,  since  then  reports  of  melancholia  and 
nervous  prostration,  before  that  health  excel 
lent — no  signs  insanity — none  in  family.  Be 
careful  how  handle  Pearsall,  was  doctor,  gave 
up  practice  to  look  after  estate,  is  prominent  in 
local  business  and  church  circles,  best  reputation, 
beware  libel." 

For  the  benefit  of  Cuthbert,  Ford  had  been 
reading  the  cable  aloud.  The  last  paragraph 
seemed  especially  to  interest  him,  and  he  read 
it  twice,  the  second  time  slowly,  and  empha 
sizing  the  word  "doctor." 

"A  doctor!"  he  repeated.  "Do  you  see 
where  that  leads  us?  It  may  explain  several 
things.  The  girl  was  in  good  health  until  she 

247 


THE   LOST  HOUSE 

went  abroad  with  her  uncle,  and  he  is  a  medical 
man." 

The  eyes  of  Cuthbert  grew  wide  with  ex 
citement. 

:'You  mean  poison!"  he  whispered.  "Slow 
poison!" 

"Beware  libel,"  laughed  Ford  nervously,  his 
own  eyes  lit  with  excitement.  "Suppose,"  he 
exclaimed,  "he  has  been  using  arsenic?  He 
would  have  many  opportunities,  and  it's  color 
less,  tasteless;  and  arsenic  would  account  for 
her  depression  and  melancholia.  The  time 
when  he  must  turn  over  her  money  is  very 
near,  and,  suppose  he  has  spent  the  money, 
speculated  with  it,  and  lost  it,  or  that  he  still 
has  it  and  wants  to  keep  it?  In  three  months 
she  will  be  of  age,  and  he  must  make  an  ac 
counting.  The  arsenic  does  not  work  fast 
enough.  So  what  does  he  do?  To  save  him 
self  from  exposure,  or  to  keep  the  money,  he 
throws  her  into  this  private  sanatorium,  to 
make  away  with  her." 

Ford  had  been  talking  in  an  eager  whisper. 
While  he  spoke  his  cigar  had  ceased  to  burn, 
and,  to  light  it,  from  a  vase  on  the  mantel 
he  took  a  spill,  one  of  those  spirals  of  paper 
that  in  English  hotels,  where  the  proprietor  is 
of  a  frugal  mind,  are  still  used  to  prevent  ex 
travagance  in  matches.  Ford  lit  the  spill  at 

248 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

the  coal  fire,  and  with  his  cigar  puffed  at  the 
flame.  As  he  did  so  the  paper  unrolled.  To 
the  astonishment  of  Cuthbert,  Ford  clasped 
it  in  both  hands,  blotted  out  the  tiny  flame, 
and,  turning  quickly  to  a  table,  spread  out  the 
charred  paper  flat.  After  one  quick  glance, 
Ford  ran  to  the  fireplace,  and,  seizing  a  hand 
ful  of  the  spills,  began  rapidly  to  unroll  them. 
Then  he  turned  to  Cuthbert  and,  without 
speaking,  showed  him  the  charred  spill.  It 
was  a  scrap  torn  from  the  front  page  of  a  news 
paper.  The  half-obliterated  words  at  which 
Ford  pointed  were  Dalesville  Cour 

"His  torn  paper!"  said  Ford.  "The  Dales 
ville  Courier.  Pearsall  has  been  in  this  ho 
tel!" 

He  handed  another  spill  to  Cuthbert. 

"From  that  one,"  said  Ford,  "we  get  the 
date,  December  3.  Allowing  three  weeks  for 
the  newspaper  to  reach  London,  Pearsall  must 
have  seen  it  just  three  weeks  ago,  just  when 
Miss  Dale  says  he  was  in  the  hotel.  The  land 
lord  has  lied  to  me." 

Ford  rang  for  a  waiter,  and  told  him  to  ask 
Mr.  Gerridge  to  come  to  the  smoking-room. 

As  Cuthbert  was  leaving  it,  Gerridge  was 
entering  it,  and  Ford  was  saying: 

"It  seems  you've  been  lying  to  the  police 
and  to  me.  Unless  you  desire  to  be  an  acces- 

249 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

sory  to  a  murder,  you  had  better  talk,  and 
talk  quick!" 

An  hour  later  Ford  passed  slowly  through 
Sowell  Street  in  a  taxicab,  and,  finding  Cuth- 
bert  on  guard,  signalled  him  to  follow.  In 
Wimpole  Street  the  cab  drew  up  to  the  curb, 
and  Cuthbert  entered  it. 

"I  have  found  Pearsall,"  said  Ford.  "He 
is  in  No.  40  with  Prothero." 

He  then  related  to  Cuthbert  what  had  hap 
pened.  Gerridge  had  explained  that  when  the 
police  called,  his  first  thought  was  to  protect 
the  good  name  of  his  hotel.  He  had  denied 
any  knowledge  of  Pearsall  only  because  he  no 
longer  was  a  guest,  and,  as  he  supposed  Pear 
sall  had  passed  out  of  his  life,  he  saw  no  reason, 
why,  through  an  arrest  and  a  scandal,  his  hotel 
should  be  involved.  Believing  Ford  to  be  in 
the  secret  service  of  the  police,  he  was  now 
only  too  anxious  to  clear  himself  of  suspicion 
by  telling  all  he  knew.  It  was  but  little. 
Pearsall  and  his  niece  had  been  at  the  hotel 
for  three  days.  During  that  time  the  niece, 
who  appeared  to  be  an  invalid,  remained  in 
her  room.  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day, 
while  Pearsall  was  absent,  a  call  from  him  had 
come  for  her  by  telephone,  on  receiving  which 
Miss  Dale  had  at  once  left  the  hotel,  appar 
ently  in  great  agitation.  That  night  she  did 

250 


not  return,  but  in  the  morning  Pearsall  came 
to  collect  his  and  her  luggage  and  to  settle  his 
account.  He  explained  that  a  woman  relative 
living  at  the  Langham  Hotel  had  been  taken 
suddenly  ill,  and  had  sent  for  him  and  his 
niece.  Her  condition  had  been  so  serious  that 
they  had  remained  with  her  all  night,  and  his 
niece  still  was  at  her  bedside.  The  driver  of 
a  four-wheeler,  who  for  years  had  stood  on 
the  cab-rank  in  front  of  Gerridge's,  had  driven 
Pearsall  to  the  Langham.  This  man  was  at 
the  moment  on  the  rank,  and  from  him  Ford 
learned  what  he  most  wished  to  know. 

The  cabman  remembered  Pearsall,  and  hav 
ing  driven  him  to  the  Langham,  for  the  reason 
that  immediately  after  setting  him  down  there, 
and  while  "crawling"  for  a  fare  in  Portland 
Place,  a  whistle  from  the  Langham  had  re 
called  him,  and  the  same  luggage  that  had 
just  been  taken  from  the  top  of  his  cab  was 
put  back  on  it,  and  he  was  directed  by  the 
porter  of  the  hotel  to  take  it  to  a  house  in 
Sowell  Street.  There  a  man-servant  had  helped 
him  unload  the  trunks  and  had  paid  him  his 
fare.  The  cabman  did  not  remember  the  num 
ber  of  the  house,  but  knew  it  was  on  the  west 
side  of  the  street  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
block. 

Having  finished  with  Gerridge  and  the  cab- 
251 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

man,  Ford  had  at  once  gone  to  the  Langham 
Hotel,  where,  as  he  anticipated,  nothing  was 
known  of  Pearsall  or  his  niece,  or  of  any  invalid 
lady.  But  the  hall-porter  remembered  the 
American  gentleman  who  had  driven  up  with 
many  pieces  of  luggage,  and  who,  although  it 
was  out  of  season,  and  many  suites  in  the  hotel 
were  vacant,  had  found  none  to  suit  him.  He 
had  then  set  forth  on  foot,  having  left  word 
that  his  trunks  be  sent  after  him.  The  address 
he  gave  was  a  house  in  Sowell  Street. 

The  porter  recalled  the  incident  because  he 
and  the  cabman  had  grumbled  over  the  fact 
that  in  five  minutes  they  had  twice  to  handle 
the  same  boxes. 

"It  is  pretty  evident,"  said  Ford,  "what 
Pearsall  had  in  mind,  but  chance  was  against 
him.  He  thought  when  he  had  unloaded  his 
trunks  at  the  Langham  and  dismissed  the  cab 
man  he  had  destroyed  the  link  connecting  him 
with  Gerridge's.  He  could  not  foresee  that  the 
same  cabman  would  be  loitering  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  He  should  have  known  that  four- 
wheelers  are  not  as  plentiful  as  they  once  were; 
and  he  should  have  given  that  particular  one 
more  time  to  get  away.  His  idea  in  walking 
to  the  Sowell  Street  house  was  obviously  to 
prevent  the  new  cabman  from  seeing  him  enter 
it.  But,  just  where  he  thought  he  was  clever, 

252 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

was  just  where  he  tripped.  If  he  had  remained 
with  his  trunks  he  would  have  seen  that  the 
cabman  was  the  same  one  who  had  brought 
them  and  him  from  Craven  Street,  and  he 
would  have  given  any  other  address  in  London 
than  the  one  he  did. 

"And  now,"  said  Ford,  "that  we  have 
Pearsall  where  we  want  him,  tell  me  what  you 
have  learned  about  Prothero?" 

Cuthbert  smiled  importantly,  and  produced 
a  piece  of  paper  scribbled  over  with  notes. 

"Prothero,"  he  said,  "seems  to  be  this  sort 
of  man.  If  he  made  your  coffee  for  you,  be 
fore  you  tasted  it,  you'd  like  him  to  drink  a 
cup  of  it  first." 


II 


"Prothero,"  said  Cuthbert,  "is  a  man  of 
mystery.  As  soon  as  I  began  asking  his  neigh 
bors  questions,  I  saw  he  was  of  interest  and 
that  I  was  of  interest.  I  saw  they  did  not 
believe  I  was  an  agent  of  a  West  End  shop, 
but  a  detective.  So  they  wouldn't  talk  at  all, 
or  else  they  talked  freely.  And  from  one  of 
them,  a  chemist  named  Needham,  I  got  all  I 
wanted.  He's  had  a  lawsuit  against  Prothero, 
and  hates  him.  Prothero  got  him  to  invest  in 
a  medicine  to  cure  the  cocaine  habit.  Need- 

253 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

nam  found  the  cure  was  no  cure,  but  cocaine 
disguised.  He  sued  for  his  money,  and  during 
the  trial  the  police  brought  in  Prothero's 
record.  Needham  let  me  copy  it,  and  it  seems 
to  embrace  every  crime  except  treason.  The 
man  is  a  Russian  Jew.  He  was  arrested  and 
prosecuted  in  Warsaw,  Vienna,  Berlin,  Bel 
grade;  all  over  Europe,  until  finally  the  police 
drove  him  to  America.  There  he  was  an  editor 
of  an  anarchist  paper,  a  blackmailer,  a  'doctor* 
of  hypnotism,  a  clairvoyant,  and  a  professional 
bigamist.  His  game  was  to  open  rooms  as  a 
clairvoyant,  and  advise  silly  women  how  to 
invest  their  money.  When  he  found  out  which 
of  them  had  the  most  money,  he  would  marry 
her,  take  over  her  fortune,  and  skip.  In 
Chicago,  he  was  tried  for  poisoning  one  wife, 
and  the  trial  brought  out  the  fact  that  two 
others  had  died  under  suspicious  circumstances, 
and  that  there  were  three  more  unpoisoned 
but  anxious  to  get  back  their  money.  He  was 
sentenced  to  ten  years  for  bigamy,  but  par 
doned  because  he  was  supposed  to  be  insane, 
and  dying.  Instead  of  dying,  he  opened  a 
sanatorium  in  New  York  to  cure  victims  of 
the  drug  habit.  In  reality,  it  was  a  sort  of 
high-priced  opium-den.  The  place  was  raided, 
and  he  jumped  his  bail  and  came  to  this  coun 
try.  Now  he  is  running  this  private  hospital 

254 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

in  Sowell  Street.  Needham  says  it's  a  secret 
rendezvous  for  dope  fiends.  But  they  are 
very  high-class  dope  fiends,  who  are  willing  to 
pay  for  seclusion,  and  the  police  can't  get  at 
him.  I  may  add  that  he's  tall  and  muscular, 
with  a  big  black  beard,  and  hands  that  could 
strangle  a  bull.  In  Chicago,  during  the  poison 
trial,  the  newspapers  called  him  'the  Modern 
Bluebeard.'" 

For  a  short  time  Ford  was  silent.  But,  in 
the  dark  corner  of  the  cab,  Cuthbert  could  see 
that  his  cigar  was  burning  briskly. 

"Your  friend  seems  a  nice  chap,"  said  Ford 
at  last.  "Calling  on  him  will  be  a  real  plea 
sure.  I  especially  like  what  you  say  about  his 
hands." 

"  I  have  a  plan,"  began  the  assistant  timidly, 
"a  plan  to  get  you  into  the  house — if  you  don't 
mind  my  making  suggestions?" 

"Not  at  all!"  exclaimed  his  chief  heartily. 
"Get  me  into  the  house  by  all  means;  that's 
what  we're  here  for.  The  fact  that  I'm  to  be 
poisoned  or  strangled  after  I  get  there  mustn't 
discourage  us." 

"I  thought,"  said  Cuthbert,  "I  might  stand 
guard  outside,  while  you  got  in  as  a  dope 
fiend." 

Ford  snorted  indignantly. 

"Do  I  look  like  a  dope  fiend?"  he  protested. 
255 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

The  voice  of  the  assistant  was  one  of  dis 
couragement. 

"You  certainly  do  not,"  he  exclaimed  re 
gretfully.  "But  it's  the  only  plan  I  could 
think  of." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  his  chief  testily, 
"that  you  are  not  so  very  healthy-looking  your 
self.  What's  the  matter  with  your  getting 
inside  as  a  dope  fiend  and  my  standing 
guard?" 

"But  I  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  after  I 
got  inside,"  complained  the  assistant,  "and 
you  would.  You  are  so  clever." 

The  expression  of  confidence  seemed  to  flatter 
Ford. 

"I  might  do  this,"  he  said.  "I  might  pre 
tend  I  was  recovering  from  a  heavy  spree,  and 
ask  to  be  taken  care  of  until  I  am  sober.  Or  I 
could  be  a  very  good  imitation  of  a  man  on 
the  edge  of  a  nervous  breakdown.  I  haven't 
been  five  years  in  the  newspaper  business 
without  knowing  all  there  is  to  know  about 
nerves.  That's  it!"  he  cried.  "I  will  do 
that!  And  if  Mr.  Bluebeard  Svengali,  the 
Strangler  of  Paris  person,  won't  take  me  in  as 
a  patient,  we'll  come  back  with  a  couple  of 
axes  and  break  in.  But  we'll  try  the  nervous 
breakdown  first,  and  we'll  try  it  now.  I  will 
be  a  naval  officer,"  declared  Ford.  "I  made 

256 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

the  round-the-world  cruise  with  our  fleet  as  a 
correspondent,  and  I  know  enough  sea  slang 
to  fool  a  medical  man.  I  am  a  naval  officer 
whose  nerves  have  gone  wrong.  I  have  heard 
of  his  sanatorium  through—  How,"  asked  Ford 
sharply,  "have  I  heard  of  his  sanatorium?*' 

"You  saw  his  advertisement  in  the  Daily 
World"  prompted  Cuthbert.  "Home  of  con 
valescents  ;  mental  and  nervous  troubles  cured/ ' 

"And,"  continued  Ford,  "I  have  come  to 
him  for  rest  and  treatment.  My  name  is 
Lieutenant  Henry  Grant.  I  arrived  in  London 
two  weeks  ago  on  the  Mauretania.  But  my 
name  was  not  on  the  passenger-list,  because  I 
did  not  want  the  Navy  Department  to  know 
I  was  taking  my  leave  abroad.  I  have  been 
stopping  at  my  own  address  in  Jermyn  Street, 
and  my  references  are  yourself,  the  Embassy, 
and  my  landlord.  You  will  telephone  him  at 
once  that,  if  any  one  asks  after  Henry  Grant, 
he  is  to  say  what  you  tell  him  to  say.  And  if 
any  one  sends  for  Henry  Grant's  clothes,  he  is 
to  send  my  clothes." 

"But  you  don't  expect  to  be  in  there  as  long 
as  that?"  exclaimed  Cuthbert. 

"I  do  not,"  said  Ford.  "But,  if  he  takes 
me  in,  I  must  make  a  bluff  of  sending  for  my 
things.  No;  either  I  will  be  turned  out  in  five 
minutes,  or  if  he  accepts  me  as  a  patient  I  will 

257 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

be  there  until  midnight.  If  I  cannot  get  the 
girl  out  of  the  house  by  midnight,  it  will  mean 
that  I  can't  get  out  myself,  and  you  had  better 
bring  the  police  and  the  coroner." 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  asked  Cuthbert. 

"I  most  certainly  do!"  exclaimed  Ford. 
"Until  twelve  I  want  a  chance  to  get  this 
story  exclusively  for  our  paper.  If  she  is  not 
free  by  then  it  means  I  have  fallen  down  on 
it,  and  you  and  the  police  are  to  begin  to  bat 
ter  in  the  doors." 

The  two  young  men  left  the  cab,  and  at 
some  distance  from  each  other  walked  to  So- 
well  Street.  At  the  house  of  Dr.  Prothero, 
Ford  stopped  and  rang  the  bell.  From  across 
the  street  Cuthbert  saw  the  door  open  and  the 
figure  of  a  man  of  almost  gigantic  stature 
block  the  doorway.  For  a  moment  he  stood 
there,  and  then  Cuthbert  saw  him  step  to  one 
side,  saw  Ford  enter  the  house  and  the  door 
close  upon  him.  Cuthbert  at  once  ran  to  a 
telephone,  and,  having  instructed  Ford's  land 
lord  as  to  the  part  he  was  to  play,  returned  to 
Sowell  Street.  There,  in  a  state  nearly  ap 
proaching  a  genuine  nervous  breakdown,  he 
continued  his  vigil. 

Even  without  his  criminal  record  to  cast  a 
glamour  over  him,  Ford  would  have  found  Dr. 
Prothero  a  disturbing  person.  His  size  was 

258 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

enormous,  his  eyes  piercing,  sinister,  unblink 
ing,  and  the  hands  that  could  strangle  a  bull, 
and  with  which,  as  though  to  control  himself, 
he  continually  pulled  at  his  black  beard,  were 
gigantic,  of  a  deadly  white,  with  fingers  long 
and  prehensile.  In  his  manner  he  had  all  the 
suave  insolence  of  the  Oriental  and  the  sus 
picious  alertness  of  one  constantly  on  guard, 
but  also,  as  Ford  at  once  noted,  of  one  wholly 
without  fear.  He  had  not  been  over  a  moment 
in  his  presence  before  the  reporter  felt  that  to 
successfully  lie  to  such  a  man  might  be  counted 
as  a  triumph. 

Prothero  opened  the  door  into  a  little  office 
leading  off  the  hall,  and  switched  on  the  elec 
tric  lights.  For  some  short  time,  without  any 
effort  to  conceal  his  suspicion,  he  stared  at 
Ford  in  silence. 

"Well?"  he  said,  at  last.  His  tone  was  a 
challenge. 

Ford  had  already  given  his  assumed  name 
and  profession,  and  he  now  ran  glibly  into  the 
story  he  had  planned.  He  opened  his  card- 
case  and  looked  into  it  doubtfully. 

"I  find  I  have  no  card  with  me,"  he  said; 
"but  I  am,  as  I  told  you,  Lieutenant  Grant, 
of  the  United  States  Navy.  I  am  all  right 
physically,  except  for  my  nerves.  They've 
played  me  a  queer  trick.  If  the  facts  get  out 

259 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

at   home,    it   might   cost   me   my   commission. 
So  I've  come  over  here  for  treatment." 

"Why  to  me?"  asked  Prothero. 

"I  saw  by  your  advertisement,"  said  the 
reporter,  "that  you  treated  for  nervous  mental 
troubles.  Mine  is  an  illusion,"  he  went  on. 
"I  see  things,  or,  rather,  always  one  thing — a 
battle-ship  coming  at  us  head  on.  For  the 
last  year  I've  been  executive  officer  of  the 
Kearsarge,  and  the  responsibility  has  been  too 
much  for  me." 

"You  see  a  battle-ship?"  inquired  the  Jew. 

"A  phantom  battle-ship,"  Ford  explained, 
"a  sort  of  Flying  Dutchman.  The  time  I 
saw  it  I  was  on  the  bridge,  and  I  yelled  and 
telegraphed  the  engine-room.  I  brought  the 
ship  to  a  full  stop,  and  backed  her.  But  it 
was  dirty  weather,  and  the  error  was  passed 
over.  After  that,  when  I  saw  the  thing  com 
ing  I  did  nothing.  But  each  time  I  think  it 
is  real."  Ford  shivered  slightly  and  glanced 
about  him.  "Some  day,"  he  added  fatefully, 
"it  will  be  real,  and  I  will  not  signal,  and  the 
ship  will  sink!" 

In  silence,  Prothero  observed  his  visitor 
closely.  The  young  man  seemed  sincere,  gen 
uine.  His  manner  was  direct  and  frank.  He 
looked  the  part  he  had  assumed,  and  he  spoke 
as  one  used  to  authority. 

260 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"My  fees  are  large/'  said  the  Russian. 

At  this  point,  had  Ford,  regardless  of  terms, 
exhibited  a  hopeful  eagerness  to  at  once  close 
with  him,  the  Jew  would  have  shown  him  the 
door.  But  Ford  was  on  guard,  and  well  aware 
that  a  lieutenant  in  the  navy  had  but  few 
guineas  to  throw  away  on  medicines.  He  made 
a  movement  as  though  to  withdraw. 

"Then  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "I  must  go 
somewhere  else." 

His  reluctance  apparently  only  partially  satis 
fied  the  Jew. 

Ford  adopted  opposite  tactics.  He  was  never 
without  ready  money.  His  paper  saw  to  it 
that  in  its  interests  he  was  always  able  at  any 
moment  to  pay  for  a  special  train  across  Europe, 
or  to  bribe  the  entire  working  staff  of  a  cable 
office.  From  his  breast-pocket  he  took  a  blue 
linen  envelope,  and  allowed  the  Jew  to  see 
that  it  was  filled  with  twenty-pound  notes. 

"I  have  means  outside  my  pay,"  said  Ford. 
"I  would  give  almost  any  price  to  the  man 
who  can  cure  me." 

The  eyes  of  the  Russian  flashed  avari 
ciously. 

"I  will  arrange  the  terms  to  suit  you,"  he 
exclaimed.  "Your  case  interests  me.  Do  you 
see  this — mirage  only  at  sea?" 

"In  any  open  place,"  Ford  assured  him. 
261 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"  In  a  park  or  public  square,  but  of  course  most 
frequently  at  sea." 

The  quack  waved  his  great  hands  as  though 
brushing  aside  a  curtain. 

"I  will  remove  the  illusion,"  he  said,  "and 
give  you  others  more  pretty."  He  smiled 
meaningly — an  evil,  leering  smile.  "When  will 
you  come?"  he  asked. 

Ford  glanced  about  him  nervously. 

"I  shall  stay  now,"  he  said.  "I  confess,  in 
the  streets  and  in  my  lodgings  I  am  frightened. 
You  give  me  confidence.  I  want  to  stay  near 
you.  I  feel  safe  with  you.  If  you  will  give 
me  writing-paper,  I  will  send  for  my  things." 

For  a  moment  the  Jew  hesitated,  and  then 
motioned  to  a  desk.  As  Ford  wrote,  Prothero 
stood  near  him,  and  the  reporter  knew  that 
over  his  shoulder  the  Jew  was  reading  what 
he  wrote.  Ford  gave  him  the  note,  unsealed, 
and  asked  that  it  be  forwarded  at  once  to  his 
lodgings. 

"To-morrow,"  he  said,  "I  will  call  up  our 
Embassy,  and  give  my  address  to  our  Naval 
Attache." 

"I  will  attend  to  that,"  said  Prothero. 
"From  now  you  are  in  my  hands,  and  you 
can  communicate  with  the  outside  only  through 
me.  You  are  to  have  absolute  rest — no  books, 
no  letters,  no  papers.  And  you  will  be  fed 

262 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

from  a  spoon.  I  will  explain  my  treatment 
later.  You  will  now  go  to  your  room,  and  you 
will  remain  there  until  you  are  a  well  man." 

Ford  had  no  wish  to  be  at  once  shut  off  from 
the  rest  of  the  house.  The  odor  of  cooking 
came  through  the  hall,  and  seemed  to  offer  an 
excuse  for  delay. 

"I  smell  food,"  he  laughed.  "And  I'm  ter 
rifically  hungry.  Can't  I  have  a  farewell  din 
ner  before  you  begin  feeding  me  from  a  spoon?" 

The  Jew  was  about  to  refuse,  but,  with  his 
guilty  knowledge  of  what  was  going  forward 
in  the  house,  he  could  not  be  too  sure  of  those 
he  allowed  to  enter  it.  He  wanted  more  time 
to  spend  in  studying  this  new  patient,  and  the 
dinner-table  seemed  to  offer  a  place  where  he 
could  do  so  without  the  other  suspecting  he 
was  under  observation. 

"My  associate  and  I  were  just  about  to 
dine,"  he  said.  "You  will  wait  here  until  I 
have  another  place  laid,  and  you  can  join  us." 

He  departed,  walking  heavily  down  the  hall, 
but  almost  at  once  Ford,  whose  ears  were  alert 
for  any  sound,  heard  him  returning,  approach 
ing  stealthily  on  tiptoe.  If  by  this  manoeuvre 
the  Jew  had  hoped  to  discover  his  patient  in 
some  indiscretion,  he  was  unsuccessful,  for  he 
found  Ford  standing  just  where  he  had  left 
him,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  door,  and 

263 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

gazing  with  apparent  interest  at  a  picture  on 
the  wall.  The  significance  of  the  incident  was 
not  lost  upon  the  intruder.  It  taught  him  he 
was  still  under  surveillance,  and  that  he  must 
bear  himself  warily.  Murmuring  some  excuse 
for  having  returned,  the  Jew  again  departed, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  Ford  heard  his  voice,  and 
that  of  another  man,  engaged  in  low  tones  in 
what  was  apparently  an  eager  argument. 

Only  once  was  the  voice  of  the  other  man 
raised  sufficiently  for  Ford  to  distinguish  his 
words.  "He  is  an  American,"  protested  the 
voice;  "that  makes  it  worse." 

Ford  guessed  that  the  speaker  was  Pearsall, 
and  that  against  his  admittance  to  the  house 
he  was  making  earnest  protest.  A  door,  clos 
ing  with  a  bang,  shut  off  the  argument,  but 
within  a  few  minutes  it  was  evident  the  Jew 
had  carried  his  point,  for  he  reappeared  to  an 
nounce  that  dinner  was  waiting.  It  was  served 
in  a  room  at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall,  and  at 
the  table,  which  was  laid  for  three,  Ford  found 
a  man  already  seated.  Prothero  introduced 
him  as  "my  associate,"  but  from  his  presence 
in  the  house,  and  from  the  fact  that  he  was  an 
American,  Ford  knew  that  he  was  Pearsall. 

Pearsall  was  a  man  of  fifty.  He  was  tall, 
spare,  with  closely  shaven  face  and  gray  hair, 
worn  rather  long.  He  spoke  with  the  accent 

264 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

of  a  Southerner,  and  although  to  Ford  he  was 
studiously  polite,  he  was  obviously  greatly  ill 
at  ease.  He  had  the  abrupt,  inattentive  man 
ners,  the  trembling  fingers  and  quivering  lips, 
of  one  who  had  long  been  a  slave  to  the  drug 
habit,  and  who  now,  with  difficulty,  was  hold 
ing  himself  in  hand. 

Throughout  the  dinner,  speaking  to  him  as 
though  interested  only  as  his  medical  advisers, 
the  Jew,  and  occasionally  the  American,  sharply 
examined  and  cross-examined  their  visitor.  But 
they  were  unable  to  trip  him  in  his  story,  or 
to  suggest  that  he  was  not  just  what  he  claimed 
to  be. 

When  the  dinner  was  finished,  the  three 
men,  for  different  reasons,  were  each  more  at 
his  ease.  Both  Pearsall  and  Prothero  believed 
from  the  new  patient  they  had  nothing  to  fear, 
and  Ford  was  congratulating  himself  that  his 
presence  at  the  house  was  firmly  secure. 

"I  think,"  said  Pearsall,  "we  should  warn 
Mr.  Grant  that  there  are  in  the  house  other 
patients  who,  like  himself,  are  suffering  from 
nervous  disorders.  At  times  some  silly  neu 
rotic  woman  becomes  hysterical,  and  may  make 
an  outcry  or  scream.  He  must  not  think 

"Oh,  that's  all  right!"  Ford  reassured  him 
cheerfully.  "I  expect  that.  In  a  sanatorium 
it  must  be  unavoidable." 

265 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

As  he  spoke,  as  though  by  a  signal  prear 
ranged,  there  came  from  the  upper  portion  of 
the  house  a  scream,  long,  insistent. 

It  was  the  voice  of  a  woman,  raised  in  ap 
peal,  in  protest,  shaken  with  fear.  Without 
for  an  instant  regarding  it,  the  two  men  fast 
ened  their  eyes  upon  the  visitor.  The  hand  of 
the  Jew  dropped  quickly  from  his  beard,  and 
slid  to  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat.  With  eyes 
apparently  unseeing,  Ford  noted  the  movement. 

"He  carries  a  gun,"  was  his  mental  com 
ment,  "and  he  seems  perfectly  willing  to  use 
it."  Aloud,  he  said:  "That,  I  suppose  is  one 
of  them?" 

Prothero  nodded  gravely,  and  turned  to 
Pearsall. 

"Will  you  attend  her?"  he  asked. 

As  Pearsall  rose  and  left  the  room,  Prothero 
rose  also. 

"You  will  come  with  me,"  he  directed, 
"and  I  will  see  you  settle  in  your  apartment. 
Your  bag  has  arrived  and  is  already  there." 

The  room  to  which  the  Jew  led  him  was  the 
front  one  on  the  second  story.  It  was  in  no 
way  in  keeping  with  a  sanatorium,  or  a  rest- 
cure.  The  walls  were  hidden  by  dark  blue 
hangings,  in  which  sparkled  tiny  mirrors,  the 
floor  was  covered  with  Turkish  rugs,  the  lights 
concealed  inside  lamps  of  dull  brass  bedecked 

266 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

with  crimson  tassels.  In  the  air  were  the 
odors  of  stale  tobacco-smoke,  of  cheap  incense, 
and  the  sickly,  sweet  smell  of  opium.  To 
Ford  the  place  suggested  a  cigar-divan  rather 
than  a  bedroom,  and  he  guessed,  correctly, 
that  when  Prothero  had  played  at  palmistry 
and  clairvoyance  this  had  been  the  place  where 
he  received  his  dupes.  But  the  American  ex 
pressed  himself  pleased  with  his  surroundings, 
and  while  Prothero  remained  in  the  room, 
busied  himself  with  unpacking  his  bag. 

On  leaving  him  the  Jew  halted  in  the  door 
and  delivered  himself  of  a  little  speech.  His 
voice  was  stern,  sharp,  menacing. 

"Until  you  are  cured,"  he  said,  "you  will 
not  put  your  foot  outside  this  room.  In  this 
house  are  other  inmates  who,  as  you  have  al 
ready  learned,  are  in  a  highly  nervous  state. 
The  brains  of  some  are  unbalanced.  With 
my  associate  and  myself  they  are  familiar,  but 
the  sight  of  a  stranger  roaming  through  the 
halls  might  upset  them.  They  might  attack 
you,  might  do  you  bodily  injury.  If  you  wish 
for  anything,  ring  the  electric  bell  beside  your 
bed  and  an  attendant  will  come.  But  you 
yourself  must  not  leave  the  room." 

He  closed  the  door,  and  Ford,  seating  him 
self  in  front  of  the  coal  fire,  hastily  considered 
his  position.  He  could  not  persuade  himself 

267 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

that,  strategically,  it  was  a  satisfactory  one. 
The  girl  he  sought  was  on  the  top  or  fourth 
floor,  he  on  the  second.  To  reach  her  he  would 
have  to  pass  through  well-lighted  halls,  up  two 
flights  of  stairs,  and  try  to  enter  a  door  that 
would  undoubtedly  be  locked.  On  the  other 
hand,  instead  of  wandering  about  in  the  rain 
outside  the  house,  he  was  now  established  on 
the  inside,  and  as  an  inmate.  Had  there  been 
time  for  a  siege,  he  would  have  been  confident 
of  success.  But  there  was  no  time.  The 
written  call  for  help  had  been  urgent.  Also, 
the  scream  he  had  heard,  while  the  manner  of 
the  two  men  had  shown  that  to  them  it  was  a 
commonplace,  was  to  him  a  spur  to  instant 
action.  In  haste  he  knew  there  was  the  risk 
of  failure,  but  he  must  take  that  risk. 

He  wished  first  to  assure  himself  that  Cuth- 
bert  was  within  call,  and  to  that  end  put  out 
the  lights  and  drew  aside  the  curtains  that 
covered  the  window.  Outside,  the  fog  was 
rolling  between  the  house-fronts,  both  rain  and 
snow  were  falling  heavily,  and  a  solitary  gas- 
lamp  showed  only  a  deserted  and  dripping 
street.  Cautiously  Ford  lit  a  match  and  for 
an  instant  let  the  flame  flare.  He  was  almost 
at  once  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  an  answering 
flame  that  flickered  from  a  dark  doorway.  Ford 
closed  the  window,  satisfied  that  his  line  of 

268 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

communication  with  the  outside  world  was  still 
intact.  The  faithful  Cuthbert  was  on  guard. 

Ford  rapidly  reviewed  each  possible  course 
of  action.  These  were  several,  but  to  lead 
any  one  of  them  to  success,  he  saw  that  he 
must  possess  a  better  acquaintance  with  the 
interior  of  the  house.  Especially  was  it  im 
portant  that  he  should  obtain  a  line  of  escape 
other  than  the  one  down  the  stairs  to  the  front 
door.  The  knowledge  that  in  the  rear  of  the 
house  there  was  a  means  of  retreat  by  a  ser 
vants'  stairway,  or  over  the  roof  of  an  adjoin 
ing  building,  or  by  a  friendly  fire-escape, 
would  at  least,  lend  him  confidence  in  his  ad 
venture.  Accordingly,  in  spite  of  Prothero's 
threat,  he  determined  at  once  to  reconnoitre. 
In  case  of  his  being  discovered  outside  his 
room,  he  would  explain  his  electric  bell  was 
out  of  order,  that  when  he  rang  no  servant  had 
answered,  and  that  he  had  sallied  forth  in  search 
of  one.  To  make  this  plausible,  he  unscrewed 
the  cap  of  the  electric  button  in  the  wall,  and 
with  his  knife  cut  off  enough  of  the  wire  to 
prevent  a  proper  connection.  He  then  re 
placed  the  cap  and,  opening  the  door,  stepped 
into  the  hall. 

The  upper  part  of  the  house  was  sunk  in 
silence,  but  rising  from  the  dining-room  be 
low,  through  the  opening  made  by  the  stairs, 

269 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

came  the  voices  of  Prothero  and  Pearsall. 
And  mixed  with  their  voices  came  also  the  sharp 
hiss  of  water  issuing  from  a  siphon.  The 
sound  was  reassuring.  Apparently,  over  their 
whiskey-and-soda  the  two  men  were  still  lin 
gering  at  the  dinner-table.  For  the  moment, 
then — so  far,  at  least,  as  they  were  concerned 
— the  coast  was  clear. 

Stepping  cautiously,  and  keeping  close  to 
the  wall,  Ford  ran  lightly  up  the  stab's  to  the 
hall  of  the  third  floor.  It  was  lit  brightly  by 
a  gas-jet,  but  no  one  was  in  sight,  and  the  three 
doors  opening  upon  it  were  shut.  At  the 
rear  of  the  hall  was  a  window;  the  blind  was 
raised,  and  through  the  panes,  dripping  in  the 
rain,  Ford  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  rigid  iron 
rods  of  a  fire-escape.  His  spirits  leaped  exult 
antly.  If  necessary,  by  means  of  this  scaling 
ladder,  he  could  work  entirely  from  the  outside. 
Greatly  elated,  he  tiptoed  past  the  closed 
doors  and  mounted  to  the  fourth  floor.  This 
also  was  lit  by  a  gas-jet  that  showed  at  one 
end  of  the  hall  a  table  on  which  were  medicine- 
bottles  and  a  tray  covered  by  a  napkin;  and 
at  the  other  end,  piled  upon  each  other  and 
blocking  the  hall-window,  were  three  steamer- 
trunks.  Painted  on  each  were  the  initials, 
"D.  D."  Ford  breathed  an  exclamation. 

270 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"Dosia  Dale,"  he  muttered,  "I  have  found 
you!" 

He  was  again  confronted  by  three  closed 
doors,  one  leading  to  a  room  that  faced  the 
street,  another  opening  upon  a  room  in  the 
rear  of  the  house,  and  opposite,  across  the 
hallway,  still  another  door.  He  observed  that 
the  first  two  doors  were  each  fastened  from  the 
outside  by  bolts  and  a  spring  lock,  and  that 
the  key  to  each  lock  was  in  place.  The  fact 
moved  him  with  indecision.  If  he  took  pos 
session  of  the  keys,  he  could  enter  the  rooms 
at  his  pleasure.  On  the  other  hand,  should 
their  loss  be  discovered,  an  alarm  would  be 
raised  and  he  would  inevitably  come  under 
suspicion.  The  very  purpose  he  had  in  view 
might  be  frustrated.  He  decided  that  where 
they  were  the  keys  would  serve  him  as  well 
as  in  his  pocket,  and  turned  his  attention  to 
the  third  door.  This  was  not  locked,  and, 
from  its  position,  Ford  guessed  it  must  be  an 
entrance  to  a  servants'  stairway. 

Confident  of  this,  he  opened  it,  and  found  a 
dark,  narrow  landing,  a  flight  of  steps  mount 
ing  from  the  kitchen  below,  and,  to  his  delight 
an  iron  ladder  leading  to  a  trap-door.  He 
could  hardly  forego  a  cheer.  If  the  trap-door 
were  not  locked,  he  had  found  a  third  line  of 
retreat,  a  means  of  escape  by  way  of  the  roof, 

271 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

far  superior  to  any  he  might  attempt  by  the 
main  staircase  and  the  street-door. 

Ford  stepped  to  the  landing,  closing  the  door 
behind  him;  and  though  this  left  him  in  com 
plete  darkness,  he  climbed  the  ladder,  and  with 
eager  fingers  felt  for  the  fastenings  of  the  trap. 
He  had  feared  to  find  a  padlock,  but,  to  his 
infinite  relief,  his  fingers  closed  upon  two  bolts. 
Noiselessly,  and  smoothly,  they  drew  back 
from  their  sockets.  Under  the  pressure  of  his 
hand  the  trap-door  lifted,  and  through  the 
opening  swept  a  breath  of  chill  night  air. 

Ford  hooked  one  leg  over  a  round  of  the 
ladder  and,  with  hands  free,  moved  the  trap  to 
one  side.  An  instant  later  he  had  scrambled 
to  the  roof,  and,  after  carefully  replacing  the 
trap,  rose  and  looked  about  him.  To  his  satis 
faction,  he  found  that  the  roof  upon  which  he 
stood  ran  level  with  the  roofs  adjoining  it,  to 
as  far  as  Devonshire  Street,  where  they  en 
countered  the  wall  of  an  apartment  house. 
This  was  of  seven  stories.  On  the  fifth  story 
a  row  of  windows,  brilliantly  lighted,  opened 
upon  the  roofs  over  which  he  planned  to  make 
his  retreat.  Ford  chuckled  with  nervous  ex 
citement. 

"Before  long,"  he  assured  himself,  "I  will 
be  visiting  the  man  who  owns  that  flat.  He 
will  think  I  am  a  burglar.  He  will  send  for 

272 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

the  police.  There  is  no  one  in  the  world  I 
shall  be  so  glad  to  see!" 

Ford  considered  that  running  over  roofs, 
even  when  their  pitfalls  were  not  concealed  by 
a  yellow  fog,  was  an  awkward  exercise,  and  de 
cided  that  before  he  made  his  dash  for  freedom, 
the  part  of  a  careful  jockey  would  be  to  take  a 
preliminary  canter  over  the  course.  Accord 
ingly,  among  party  walls  of  brick,  rain-pipes, 
chimney-pipes,  and  telephone  wires,  he  felt 
his  way  to  the  wall  of  the  apartment  house; 
and  then,  with  a  clearer  idea  of  the  obstacles 
to  be  avoided,  raced  back  to  the  point  whence 
he  had  started. 

Next,  to  discover  the  exact  position  of  the 
fire-escape,  he  dropped  to  his  knees  and  crawled 
to  the  rear  edge  of  the  roof.  The  light  from 
the  back  windows  of  the  fourth  floor  showed 
him  an  iron  ladder  from  the  edge  of  the  roof 
to  the  platform  of  the  fire-escape,  and  the  plat 
form  itself,  stretching  below  the  windows  the 
width  of  the  building.  He  gave  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction,  but  the  same  instant  exclaimed 
with  dismay.  The  windows  opening  upon  the 
fire-escape  were  closely  barred. 

For  a  moment  he  was  unable  to  grasp  why  a 
fire-escape  should  be  placed  where  escape  was 
impossible,  until  he  recognized  that  the  ladder 
must  have  been  erected  first  and  the  iron  bars 

273 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

later;  probably  only  since  Miss  Dale  had  been 
made  a  prisoner. 

But  he  now  appreciated  that  in  spite  of  the 
iron  bars  he  was  nearer  that  prisoner  than  he 
had  ever  been.  Should  he  return  to  the  hall 
below,  even  while  he  could  unlock  the  doors, 
he  was  in  danger  of  discovery  by  those  inside 
the  house.  But  from  the  fire-escape  only  a 
window-pane  would  separate  him  from  the 
prisoner,  and  though  the  bars  would  keep  him 
at  arm's-Iength,  he  might  at  least  speak  with 
her,  and  assure  her  that  her  call  for  help  had 
carried.  He  grasped  the  sides  of  the  ladder 
and  dropped  to  the  platform.  As  he  had 
already  seen  that  the  window  farthest  to  the 
left  was  barricaded  with  trunks,  he  disre 
garded  it,  and  passed  quickly  to  the  two  others. 
Behind  both  of  these,  linen  shades  were  low 
ered,  but,  to  his  relief,  he  found  that  in  the 
middle  window  the  lower  sash,  as  though  for 
ventilation,  was  slightly  raised,  leaving  an 
opening  of  a  few  inches. 

Kneeling  on  the  gridiron  platform  of  the 
fire-escape,  and  pressing  his  face  against  the 
bars,  he  brought  his  eyes  level  with  this  open 
ing.  Owing  to  the  lowered  window-blind,  he 
could  see  nothing  in  the  room,  nor  could  he 
distinguish  any  sound  until  above  the  drip  and 
patter  of  the  rain  there  came  to  him  the  peace- 

274 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

ful  ticking  of  a  clock  and  the  rattle  of  coal 
falling  to  the  fender.  But  of  any  sound  that 
was  human  there  was  none.  That  the  room 
was  empty,  and  that  the  girl  was  in  the  front 
of  the  house  was  possible,  and  the  temptation 
to  stretch  his  hand  through  the  bars  and  lift 
the  blind  was  almost  compelling.  If  he  did 
so,  and  the  girl  were  inside,  she  might  make 
an  outcry,  or,  guarding  her,  there  might  be  an 
attendant,  who  at  once  would  sound  the  alarm. 
The  risk  was  evident,  but,  encouraged  by  the 
silence,  Ford  determined  to  take  the  chance. 
Slipping  one  hand  between  the  bars  he  caught 
the  end  of  the  blind,  and,  pulling  it  gently 
down,  let  the  spring  draw  it  upward.  Through 
an  opening  of  six  inches  the  room  lay  open  be 
fore  him.  He  saw  a  door  leading  to  another 
room,  at  one  side  an  iron  cot,  and  in  front  of 
the  coal  fire,  facing  him,  a  girl  seated  in  a  deep 
arm-chair.  A  book  lay  on  her  knees,  and  she 
was  intently  reading. 

The  girl  was  young,  and  her  face,  in  spite  of 
an  unnatural  pallor  and  an  expression  of  deep 
melancholy,  was  one  of  extreme  beauty.  She 
wore  over  a  night-dress  a  long  loose  wrapper 
corded  at  the  waist,  and,  as  though  in  readiness 
for  the  night,  her  black  hair  had  been  drawn 
back  into  smooth,  heavy  braids.  She  made  so 
sweet  and  sad  a  picture  that  Ford  forgot  his 

275 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

errand,  forgot  his  damp  and  chilled  body,  and 
for  a  moment  in  sheer  delight  knelt,  with  his 
face  pressed  close  to  the  bars,  and  gazed  at  her. 

A  movement  on  the  part  of  the  girl  brought 
him  to  his  senses.  She  closed  the  book,  and, 
leaning  forward,  rested  her  chin  upon  the 
hollow  of  her  hand  and  stared  into  the  fire. 
Her  look  was  one  of  complete  and  hopeless 
misery.  Ford  did  not  hesitate.  The  girl  was 
alone,  but  that  at  any  moment  an  attendant 
might  join  her  was  probable,  and  the  rare 
chance  that  now  offered  would  be  lost.  He 
did  not  dare  to  speak,  or  by  any  sound  attract 
her  attention,  but  from  his  breast-pocket  he 
took  the  glove  thrown  to  him  from  the  win 
dow,  and,  with  a  jerk,  tossed  it  through  the 
narrow  opening.  It  fell  directly  at  her  feet. 
She  had  not  seen  the  glove  approach,  but  the 
slight  sound  it  made  in  falling  caused  her  to 
start  and  turn  her  eyes  toward  it.  Through 
the  window,  breathless,  and  with  every  nerve 
drawn  taut,  Ford  watched  her. 

For  a  moment,  partly  in  alarm,  partly  in 
bewilderment,  she  sat  motionless,  regarding 
the  glove  with  eyes  fixed  and  staring.  Then 
she  lifted  them  to  the  ceiling,  in  quick  succes 
sion  to  each  of  the  closed  doors,  and  then  to 
the  window.  In  his  race  across  the  roofs  Ford 
had  lacked  the  protection  of  a  hat,  and  his 
hair  was  plastered  across  his  forehead;  his  face 

276 


was  streaked  with  soot  and  snow,  his  eyes 
shone  with  excitement.  But  at  sight  of  this 
strange  apparition  the  girl  made  no  sign.  Her 
alert  mind  had  in  an  instant  taken  in  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  glove,  and  for  her  what  fol 
lowed  could  have  but  one  meaning.  She  knew 
that  no  matter  in  what  guise  he  came  the  man 
whose  face  was  now  pressed  against  the  bars 
was  a  friend. 

With  a  swift,  graceful  movement  she  rose  to 
her  feet,  crossed  quickly  to  the  window,  and 
sank  upon  her  knees. 

"Speak  in  a  whisper,"  she  said;  "and  speak 
quickly.  You  are  in  great  danger !" 

That  her  first  thought  was  of  his  safety  gave 
Ford  a  thrill  of  shame  and  pleasure. 

Until  now  Miss  Dosia  Dale  had  been  only 
the  chief  feature  in  a  newspaper  story;  the 
unknown  quantity  in  a  problem.  She  had 
meant  no  more  to  him  than  had  the  initials  on 
her  steamer-trunk.  Now,  through  her  beauty, 
through  the  distress  in  her  eyes,  through  her 
warm  and  generous  nature  that  had  disclosed 
itself  with  her  first  words,  she  became  a  living, 
breathing,  lovely,  and  lovable  woman.  All  of 
the  young  man's  chivalry  leaped  to  the  call. 
He  had  gone  back  several  centuries.  In  feel 
ing,  he  was  a  knight-errant  rescuing  beauty  in 
distress  from  a  dungeon  cell. 

To  the  girl,  he  was  a  reckless  young  person 
277 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

with  a  dirty  face  and  eyes  that  gave  confidence. 

But,  though  a  knight-errant,  Ford  was  a 
modern  knight-errant.  He  wasted  no  time  in 
explanations  or  pretty  speeches. 

"In  two  minutes,"  he  whispered,  "I'll  un 
lock  your  door.  There's  a  ladder  outside  your 
room  to  the  roof.  Once  we  get  to  the  roof  the 
rest's  easy.  Should  anything  go  wrong,  I'll 
come  back  by  this  fire-escape.  Wait  at  the 
window  until  you  see  your  door  open.  Do  you 
understand?" 

The  girl  answered  with  an  eager  nod.  The 
color  had  flown  to  her  cheek.  Her  eyes  flashed 
in  excitement.  A  sudden  doubt  assailed 
Ford. 

"  You've  no  time  to  put  on  any  more  clothes," 
he  commanded. 

"I  haven't  got  any!"  said  the  girl. 

The  knight-errant  ran  up  the  fire-escape, 
pulled  himself  over  the  edge  of  the  roof,  and, 
crossing  it,  dropped  through  the  trap  to  the 
landing  of  the  kitchen  stairs.  Here  he  ex 
pended  the  greater  part  of  the  two  minutes  he 
had  allowed  himself  in  cautiously  opening  the 
door  into  the  hall.  He  accomplished  this  with 
out  a  sound,  and  in  one  step  crossed  the  hall  to 
the  door  that  held  Miss  Dale  a  prisoner. 

Slowly  he  drew  back  the  bolts.  Only  the 
spring  lock  now  barred  him  from  her.  With 

278 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

thumb  and  forefinger  he  turned  the  key,  pushed 
the  door  gently  open,  and  ran  into  the  room. 

At  the  same  instant  from  behind  him,  within 
six  feet  of  him,  he  heard  the  staircase  creak. 
A  bomb  bursting  could  not  have  shaken  him 
more  rudely.  He  swung  on  his  heel  and  found, 
blocking  the  door,  the  giant  bulk  of  Prothero 
regarding  him  over  the  barrel  of  his  pistol. 

"Don't  move!"  said  the  Jew. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  girl  gave  a  cry 
of  warning,  and  sprang  forward. 

"  Go  back ! "  commanded  Prothero.  His  voice 
was  low  and  soft,  and  apparently  calm,  but  his 
face  showed  white  with  rage. 

Ford  had  recovered  from  the  shock  of  the 
surprise.  He,  also,  was  in  a  rage — a  rage  of 
mortification  and  bitter  disappointment. 

"Don't  point  that  gun  at  me!"  he  blus 
tered. 

The  sound  of  leaping  footsteps  and  the  voice 
of  Pearsall  echoed  from  the  floor  below. 

"Have  you  got  him?"  he  called. 

Prothero  made  no  reply,  nor  did  he  lower 
his  pistol.  When  Pearsall  was  at  his  side, 
without  turning  his  head,  he  asked  in  the  same 
steady  tone: 

"What  shall  we  do  with  him?" 

The  face  of  Pearsall  was  white,  and  furious 
with  fear. 

279 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"I  told  you — "  he  stormed. 

"Never  mind  what  you  told  me,"  said  the 
Jew.  "What  shall  we  do  with  him?  He 
knows !" 

Ford's  mind  was  working  swiftly.  He  had 
no  real  fear  of  personal  danger  for  the  girl  or 
himself.  The  Jew,  he  argued,  was  no  fool. 
He  would  not  risk  his  neck  by  open  murder. 
And,  as  he  saw  it,  escape  with  the  girl  might 
still  be  possible.  He  had  only  to  conceal  from 
Prothero  his  knowledge  of  the  line  of  retreat 
over  the  house-tops,  explain  his  rain-soaked 
condition,  and  wait  a  better  chance. 

To  this  end  he  proceeded  to  lie  briskly  and 
smoothly. 

"Of  course  I  know,"  he  taunted.  He  pointed 
to  his  dripping  garments.  "Do  you  know 
where  I've  been?  In  the  street,  placing  my 
men.  I  have  this  house  surrounded.  I  am 
going  to  walk  down  those  stairs  with  this 
young  lady.  If  you  try  to  stop  me  I  have  inly 
to  blow  my  police-whistle " 

"And  I  will  blow  your  brains  out!"  inter 
rupted  the  Jew. 

It  was  a  most  unsatisfactory  climax. 

"You  have  not  been  in  the  street,"  said  Pro 
thero.  "You  are  wet  because  you  hung  out 
of  your  window  signalling  to  your  friend.  Do 
you  know  why  he  did  not  answer  your  second 

280 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

signal?  Because  he  is  lying  in  an  area,  with 
a  knife  in  him!" 

"You  lie!"  cried  Ford. 

"You  lie,"  retorted  the  Jew  quietly,  "when 
you  say  your  men  surround  this  house.  You 
are  alone.  You  are  not  in  the  police  service, 
you  are  a  busybody  meddling  with  men  who 
think  as  little  of  killing  you  as  they  did  of  kill 
ing  your  friend.  My  servant  was  placed  to 
watch  your  window,  saw  your  signal,  reported 
to  me.  And  I  found  your  assistant  and  threw 
him  into  an  area,  with  a  knife  in  him!" 

Ford  felt  the  story  was  untrue.  Prothero 
was  trying  to  frighten  him.  Out  of  pure  bra 
vado  no  sane  man  would  boast  of  murder. 
But — and  at  the  thought  Ford  felt  a  touch  of 
real  fear — was  the  man  sane?  It  was  a  most 
unpleasant  contingency.  Between  a  fight  with 
an  angry  man  and  an  insane  man  the  difference 
was  appreciable.  From  this  new  view-point 
Ford  regarded  his  adversary  with  increased 
wariness;  he  watched  him  as  he  would  a 
mad  dog.  He  regretted  extremely  he  had  not 
brought  his  revolver. 

With  his  automatic  pistol  still  covering  Ford, 
Prothero  spoke  to  Pearsall. 

"I  found  him,"  he  recited,  as  though  testing 
the  story  he  would  tell  later,  "prowling  through 
my  house  at  night.  Mistaking  him  for  a 

281 


THE   LOST  HOUSE 

burglar,  I  killed  him.  The  kitchen  window 
will  be  found  open,  with  the  lock  broken,  show 
ing  how  he  gained  an  entrance.  Why  not?" 
he  demanded. 

"Because,"  protested  Pearsall,  in  terror,  "the 
man  outside  will  tell 

Ford  shouted  with  genuine  relief. 

"Exactly!"  he  cried.  "The  man  outside, 
who  is  not  down  an  area  with  a  knife  in  him, 
but  who  at  this  moment  is  bringing  the  police 
-be  will  tell!" 

As  though  he  had  not  been  interrupted,  Pro- 
thero  continued  thoughtfully: 

"What  they  may  say  he  expected  to  find 
here,  I  can  explain  away  later.  The  point  is 
that  I  found  a  strange  man,  hatless,  dishevelled, 
prowling  in  my  house.  I  called  on  him  to 
halt;  he  ran,  I  fired,  and  unfortunately  killed 
him.  An  Englishman's  home  is  his  castle;  an 
English  jury " 

"An  English  jury,"  said  Ford  briskly,  "is 
the  last  thing  you  want  to  meet —  It  isn't  a 
Chicago  jury." 

The  Jew  flung  back  his  head  as  though  Ford 
had  struck  him  in  the  face. 

"Ah!"  he  purred,  "you  know  that,  too,  do 
you?"  The  purr  increased  to  a  snarl.  "You 
know  too  much!" 

For  Pearsall,  his  tone  seemed  to  bear  an 
282 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

alarming  meaning.  He  sprang  toward  Pro- 
thero,  and  laid  both  hands  upon  his  disengaged 
arm. 

"For  God's  sake/'  he  pleaded,  "come  away! 
He  can't  hurt  you — not  alive;  but  dead,  he'll 
hang  you — hang  us  both.  We  must  go,  now, 
this  moment."  He  dragged  impotently  at  the 
left  arm  of  the  giant.  "Come!"  he  begged. 

Whether  moved  by  Pearsall's  words  or  by 
some  thought  of  his  own,  Prothero  nodded  in 
assent.  He  addressed  himself  to  Ford. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  you,"  he 
said,  "so  I  will  consult  with  my  friend  outside 
this  door.  While  we  talk,  we  will  lock  you  in. 
We  can  hear  any  move  you  make.  If  you  raise 
the  window  or  call  I  will  open  the  door  and 
kill  you — you  and  that  woman!" 

With  a  quick  gesture,  he  swung  to  the  door, 
and  the  spring  lock  snapped.  An  instant  later 
the  bolts  were  noisily  driven  home. 

When  the  second  bolt  shot  into  place,  Ford 
turned  and  looked  at  Miss  Dale. 

"This  is  a  hell  of  a  note!"  he  said. 

Ill 

Outside  the  locked  door  the  voices  of  the 
two  men  rose  in  fierce  whispers.  But  Ford  re 
garded  them  not  at  all.  With  the  swiftness  of 

283 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

a  squirrel  caught  in  a  cage,  he  darted  on  tip 
toe  from  side  to  side  searching  the  confines  of 
his  prison.  He  halted  close  to  Miss  Dale  and 
pointed  at  the  windows. 

"Have  you  ever  tried  to  loosen  those  bars?" 
he  whispered. 

The  girl  nodded  and,  in  pantomime  that 
spoke  of  failure,  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"What  did  you  use?"  demanded  Ford  hope- 
fully. 

The  girl  destroyed  his  hope  with  a  shake  of 
her  head  and  a  swift  smile. 

"Scissors,"  she  said;  "but  they  found  them 
and  took  them  away." 

Ford  pointed  at  the  open  grate. 

"Where's  the  poker?"  he  demanded. 

"They  took  that,  too.  I  bent  it  trying  to 
pry  the  bars.  So  they  knew." 

The  man  gave  her  a  quick,  pleased  glance, 
then  turned  his  eyes  to  the  door  that  led  into 
the  room  that  looked  upon  the  street. 

"Is  that  door  locked?" 

"No,"  the  girl  told  him.  "But  the  door 
from  it  into  the  hall  is  fastened,  like  the  other, 
with  a  spring  lock  and  two  bolts." 

Ford  cautiously  opened  the  door  into  the 
room  adjoining,  and,  except  for  a  bed  and 
wash-stand,  found  it  empty.  On  tiptoe  he 
ran  to  the  windows.  Sowell  Street  was  de- 

284 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

serted.  He  returned  to  Miss  Dale,  again  clos 
ing  the  door  between  the  two  rooms. 

"The  nurse,"  Miss  Dale  whispered,  "when 
she  is  on  duty,  leaves  that  door  open  so  that 
she  can  watch  me;  when  she  goes  downstairs, 
she  locks  and  bolts  the  door  from  that  room  to 
the  hall.  It's  locked  now." 

"What's  the  nurse  like?" 

The  girl  gave  a  shudder  that  seemed  to  Ford 
sufficiently  descriptive.  Her  lips  tightened  in 
a  hard,  straight  line. 

"She's  not  human,"  she  said.  "I  begged  her 
to  help  me,  appealed  to  her  in  every  way ;  then 
I  tried  a  dozen  times  to  get  past  her  to  the 
stairs." 

"Well?" 

The  girl  frowned,  and  with  a  gesture  signified 
her  surroundings. 

"I'm  still  here,"  she  said. 

She  bent  suddenly  forward  and,  with  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  turned  the  man  so  that 
he  faced  the  cot. 

"The  mattress  on  that  bed,"  she  whispered, 
"rests  on  two  iron  rods.  They  are  loose  and 
can  be  lifted.  I  planned  to  smash  the  lock,  but 
the  noise  would  have  brought  Prothero.  But 
you  could  defend  yourself  with  one  of  them." 

Ford  had  already  run  to  the  cot  and  dropped 
to  his  knees.  He  found  the  mattress  supported 

285 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

on  strips  of  iron  resting  loosely  in  sockets  at 
the  head  and  foot.  He  raised  the  one  nearer 
him,  and  then,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation, 
let  it  drop  into  place. 

"That's  fine!"  he  whispered.  "Good  as  a 
crowbar."  He  shook  his  head  in  sudden  in 
decision.  "But  I  don't  just  know  how  to  use 
it.  His  automatic  could  shoot  six  times  be 
fore  I  could  swing  that  thing  on  him  once. 
And  if  I  have  it  in  my  hands  when  he  opens 
the  door,  he'll  shoot,  and  he  may  hit  you. 
But  if  I  leave  it  where  it  is,  he  won't  know  I 
know  it's  there,  and  it  may  come  in  very  handy 
later." 

In  complete  disapproval  the  girl  shook  her 
head.  Her  eyes  filled  with  concern. 

"You  must  not  fight  him,"  she  ordered. 
"I  mean,  not  for  me.  You  don't  know  the 
danger.  The  man's  not  sane.  He  won't  give 
you  a  chance.  He's  mad.  You  have  no  right 
to  risk  your  life  for  a  stranger.  I'll  not  per 
mit  it " 

Ford  held  up  his  hand  for  silence.  With  a 
jerk  of  his  head  he  signified  the  door. 

"They've  stopped  talking,"  he  whispered. 

Straining  to  hear,  the  two  leaned  forward, 
but  from  the  hall  there  came  no  sound.  The 
girl  raised  her  eyebrows  questioningly. 

"Have  they  gone?"  she  breathed. 
286 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"If  I  knew  that,"  protested  Ford,  "we 
wouldn't  be  here!" 

In  answer  to  his  doubt  a  smart  rap,  as  though 
from  the  butt  of  a  revolver,  fell  upon  the  door. 
The  voice  of  Prothero  spoke  sharply: 

"You,  who  call  yourself  Grant!"  he  shouted. 

Before  answering,  Ford  drew  Miss  Dale  and 
himself  away  from  the  line  of  the  door,  and  so 
placed  the  girl  with  her  back  to  the  wall  that 
if  the  door  opened  she  would  be  behind  it. 

"Yes,"  he  answered. 

"Pearsall  and  I,"  called  Prothero,  "have 
decided  how  to  dispose  of  you— of  both  of  you. 
He  has  gone  below  to  make  preparations.  I 
am  on  guard.  If  you  try  to  break  out  or  call 
for  help,  I'll  shoot  you  as  I  warned  you!" 

"And  I  warn  you,"  saouted  Ford,  "if  this 
lady  and  I  do  not  instantly  leave  this  house,  or 
if  any  harm  comes  to  her,  you  will  hang  for  it !" 

Prothero  laughed  jeeringly. 

"Who  will  hang  me?"  he  mocked. 

"My  friends,"  retorted  Ford.  "They  know 
I  am  in  this  house.  They  know  why  I  am  here. 
Unless  they  see  Miss  Dale  and  myself  walk  out 
qf  it  in  safety,  they  will  never  let  you  leave  it. 
Don't  be  a  fool,  Prothero !"  he  shouted.  "You 
know  I  am  telling  the  truth.  You  know  your 
only  chance  for  mercy  is  to  open  that  door 
and  let  us  go  free." 

287 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

For  over  a  minute  Ford  waited,  but  from  the 
hall  there  was  no  answer. 

After  another  minute  of  silence,  Ford  turned 
and  gazed  inquiringly  at  Miss  Dale. 

"Prothero!"  he  called. 

Again  for  a  full  minute  he  waited  and  again 
called,  and  then,  as  there  still  was  no  reply,  he 
struck  the  door  sharply  with  his  knuckles. 
On  the  instant  the  voice  of  the  Jew  rang  forth 
in  an  angry  bellow. 

"Keep  away  from  that  door!"  he  com 
manded. 

Ford  turned  to  Miss  Dale  and  bent  his  head 
close  to  hers. 

"Now,  why  the  devil  didn't  he  answer?" 
he  whispered.  "Was  it  because  he  wasn't 
there;  or  is  he  planning  to  steal  away  and 
wants  us  to  think  that  even  if  he  does  not 
answer,  he's  still  outside?" 

The  girl  nodded  eagerly. 

"This  is  it,"  she  whispered.  "My  uncle  is 
a  coward,  or  rather  he  is  very  wise,  and  has 
left  the  house.  And  Prothero  means  to  follow, 
but  he  wants  us  to  think  he's  still  on  guard. 
If  we  only  knew!"  she  exclaimed. 

As  though  in  answer  to  her  thought,  the 
voice  of  Prothero  called  to  them. 

"Don't  speak  to  me  again,"  he  warned.  "If 
you  do,  I'll  not  answer,  or  I'll  shoot!" 

288 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

Flattened  against  the  wall,  close  to  the 
hinges  of  the  door,  Ford  replied  flippantly  and 
defiantly : 

"That  makes  conversation  difficult,  doesn't 
it?"  he  called. 

There  was  a  bursting  report,  and  a  bullet 
splintered  the  panel  of  the  door,  flattened  it 
self  against  the  fireplace,  and  fell  tinkling  into 
the  grate. 

"I  hope  I  hit  you!"  roared  the  Jew. 

Ford  pressed  his  lips  tightly  together.  What 
ever  happy  retort  may  have  risen  to  them  was 
forever  lost.  For  an  exchange  of  repartee,  the 
moment  did  not  seem  propitious. 

"Perhaps  now,"  jeered  Prothero,  "you'll  be 
lieve  I'm  in  earnest!" 

Ford  still  resisted  any  temptation  to  reply. 
He  grinned  apologetically  at  the  girl  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  Her  face  was  white,  but 
it  was  white  from  excitement,  not  from  fear. 

"What  did  I  tell  you?"  she  whispered. 
"He  is  mad — quite  mad!" 

Ford  glanced  at  the  bullet-hole  in  the  panel 
of  the  door.  It  was  on  a  line  with  his  heart. 
He  looked  at  Miss  Dale;  her  shoulder  was  on 
a  level  with  his  own,  and  her  eyes  were  follow 
ing  his. 

"In  case  he  does  that  again,"  said  Ford, 
"we  would  be  more  comfortable  sitting  down." 

289 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

With  their  shoulders  against  the  wall,  the 
two  young  people  sank  to  the  floor.  The  posi 
tion  seemed  to  appeal  to  them  as  humorous, 
and,  when  their  eyes  met,  they  smiled. 

"To  a  spectator,"  whispered  Ford  encour 
agingly,  "we  might  appear  to  be  getting  the 
worst  of  this.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  every 
minute  Cuthbert  does  not  come  means  that 
the  next  minute  may  bring  him." 

"You  don't  believe  he  was  hurt?"  asked  the 
girl. 

"No,"  said  Ford.  "I  believe  Prothero  found 
him,  and  I  believe  there  may  have  been  a 
fight.  But  you  heard  what  Pearsall  said: 
'The  man  outside  will  tell.'  //  Cuthbert's  in 
a  position  to  tell,  he  is  not  down  an  area  with 
a  knife  in  him." 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  faint  report  from 
the  lowest  floor,  as  though  the  door  to  the 
street  had  been  sharply  slammed.  Miss  Dale 
showed  that  she  also  had  heard  it. 

"My  uncle,"  she  said,  "making  his  escape!" 

"It  may  be,"  Ford  answered. 

The  report  did  not  suggest  to  him  the  slam 
ming  of  a  door,  but  he  saw  no  reason  for  saying 
ing  so  to  the  girl. 

With  his  fingers  locked  across  his  knees, 
Ford  was  leaning  forward,  his  eyes  frowning, 
his  lips  tightly  shut.  At  his  side  the  girl  re- 

2QO 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

garded  him  covertly.  His  broad  shoulders, 
almost  touching  hers,  his  strong  jaw  project 
ing  aggressively,  and  the  alert,  observant  eyes 
gave  her  confidence.  For  three  weeks  she  had 
been  making  a  fight  single-handed.  But  she 
was  now  willing  to  cease  struggling  and  relax. 
Quite  happily  she  placed  herself  and  her  safety 
in  the  keeping  of  a  stranger.  Half  to  herself, 
half  to  the  man,  she  murmured: 

"It  is  like  'The  Sieur  de  Maletroit's  Door.'" 

Without  looking  at  her,  Ford  shook  his  head 
and  smiled. 

"No  such  luck,"  he  corrected  grimly.  "That 
young  man  was  given  a  choice.  The  moment 
he  was  willing  to  marry  the  girl  he  could  have 
walked  out  of  the  room  free.  I  do  not  recall 
Prothero's  saying  7  can  escape  death  by  any 
such  charming  alternative." 

The  girl  interrupted  quickly. 

"No,"  she  said;  "you  are  not  at  all  like 
that  young  man.  He  stumbled  in  by  chance. 
You  came  on  purpose  to  help  me.  It  was  fine, 
unselfish." 

"It  was  not,"  returned  Ford.  "My  motive 
was  absolutely  selfish.  It  was  not  to  help  you 
I  came,  but  to  be  able  to  tell  about  it  later. 
It  is  my  business  to  do  that.  And  before  I 
saw  you,  it  was  all  in  the  day's  work.  But 
after  I  saw  you  it  was  no  longer  a  part  of  the 

291 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

day's  work;  it  became  a  matter  of  a  life 
time." 

The  girl  at  his  side  laughed  softly  and  lightly. 
"A  lifetime  is  not  long,"  she  said,  "when  you 
are  locked  in  a  room  and  a  madman  is  shooting 
at  you.  It  may  last  only  an  hour." 

"Whether  it  lasts  an  hour  or  many  years," 
said  Ford,  "it  can  mean  to  me  now  only  one 
thing — "  He  turned  quickly  and  looked  in 
her  face  boldly  and  steadily:  "You"  he  said. 

The  girl  did  not  avoid  his  eyes,  but  returned 
his  glance  with  one  as  steady  as  his  own.  "You 
are  an  amusing  person,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
feel  it  is  necessary  to  keep  up  my  courage  with 
pretty  speeches?" 

"I  made  no  pretty  speech,"  said  Ford.  "I 
proclaimed  a  fact.  You  are  the  most  charm 
ing  person  that  ever  came  into  my  life,  and 
whether  Prothero  shoots  us  up,  or  whether  we 
live  to  get  back  to  God's  country,  you  will 
never  leave  it." 

The  girl  pretended  to  consider  his  speech 
critically.  "It  would  be  almost  a  compli 
ment,"  she  said,  "if  it  were  intelligent,  but 
when  you  know  nothing  of  me — it  is  merely 
impertinent." 

"I  know  this  much  of  you,"  returned  Ford, 
calmly;  "I  know  you  are  fine  and  generous,  for 
your  first  speech  to  me,  in  spite  of  your  own 

292 


THE   LOST  HOUSE 

danger,  was  for  my  safety.  I  know  you  are 
brave,  for  I  see  you  now  facing  death  without 
dismay." 

He  was  again  suddenly  halted  by  two  sharp 
reports.  They  came  from  the  room  directly 
below  them.  It  was  no  longer  possible  to  pre 
tend  to  misinterpret  their  significance. 

"Prothero!"  exclaimed  Ford,  "and  his  pis 
tol!" 

They  waited  breathlessly  for  what  might  fol 
low:  an  outcry,  the  sound  of  a  body  falling,  a 
third  pistol-shot.  But  throughout  the  house 
there  was  silence. 

"  If  you  really  think  we  are  in  such  danger," 
declared  Miss  Dale,  "we  are  wasting  time!" 

"We  are  not  wasting  time,"  protested  Ford; 
"we  are  really  gaining  time,  for  each  minute 
Cuthbert  and  the  police  are  drawing  nearer, 
and  to  move  about  only  invites  a  bullet.  And, 
what  is  of  more  importance,"  he  went  on  quickly, 
as  though  to  turn  her  mind  from  the  mysteri 
ous  pistol-shots,  "should  we  get  out  of  this 
alive,  I  shall  already  have  said  what  under  ordi 
nary  conditions  I  might  not  have  found  the 
courage  to  tell  you  in  many  months."  He 
waited  as  though  hopeful  of  a  reply,  but  Miss 
Dale  remained  silent.  "They  say,"  continued 
Ford,  "when  a  man  is  drowning  his  whole  life 
passes  in  review.  We  are  drowning,  and  yet  I 

293 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

find  I  can  see  into  the  past  no  further  than 
the  last  half-hour.  I  find  life  began  only  then, 
when  I  looked  through  the  bars  of  that  window 
and  found  you  /" 

With  the  palm  of  her  hand  the  girl  struck 
the  floor  sharply.  "This  is  neither  the  time," 
she  exclaimed,  "nor  the  place  to " 

"I  did  not  choose  the  place,"  Ford  pointed 
out.  "It  was  forced  upon  me  with  a  gun. 
But  the  time  is  excellent.  At  such  a  time  one 
speaks  only  what  is  true." 

"You  certainly  have  a  strange  sense  of 
humor,"  she  said,  "but  when  you  are  risking 
your  life  to  help  me,  how  can  I  be  angry?" 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  Ford  agreed  heartily; 
"you  could  not  be  so  conventional." 

"But  I  am  conventional!"  protested  Miss 
Dale.  "And  I  am  not  used  to  having  young 
men  tell  me  they  have  'come  into  my  life  to 
stay' — certainly  not  young  men  who  come  into 
my  life  by  way  of  a  trap-door,  and  without  an 
introduction,  without  a  name,  without  even  a 
hat !  It's  absurd  I  It's  not  real !  It's  a  night 
mare  ! " 

"The  whole  situation  is  absurd!"  Ford  de 
clared.  "Here  we  are  in  the  heart  of  London, 
surrounded  by  telephones,  taxicabs,  police — at 
least,  hope  we  are  surrounded  by  police — and 
yet  we  are  crawling  around  the  floor  on  our 

294 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

hands  and  knees  dodging  bullets.  I  wish  it 
were  a  nightmare.  But,  as  it's  not" — he  rose 
to  his  feet— "I  think  I'll  try- 
He  was  interrupted  by  a  sharp  blow  upon 
the  door  and  the  voice  of  Prothero. 

"You,  navy  officer!"  he  panted.  "Come  to 
the  door!  Stand  close  to  it  so  that  I  needn't 
shout.  Come,  quick!" 

Ford  made  no  answer.  Motioning  to  Miss 
Dale  to  remain  where  she  was,  he  ran  noise 
lessly  to  the  bed,  and  from  beneath  the  mat 
tress  lifted  one  of  the  iron  bars  upon  which  it 
rested.  Grasping  it  at  one  end,  he  swung  the 
bar  swiftly  as  a  man  tests  the  weight  of  a  base 
ball  bat.  As  a  weapon  it  seemed  to  satisfy 
him,  for  he  smiled.  Then  once  more  he  placed 
himself  with  his  back  to  the  wall. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  roared  Prothero. 

"I  hear  you!"  returned  Ford.  "If  you 
want  to  talk  to  me,  open  the  door  and  come 
inside." 

"Listen  to  me,"  called  Prothero.  "If  I  open 
the  door  you  may  act  the  fool,  and  I  will  have 
to  shoot  you,  and  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
let  you  live.  You  will  soon  have  this  house  to 
yourselves.  In  a  few  moments  I  will  leave  it, 
but  where  I  am  going  I'll  need  money,  and  I 
want  the  bank-notes  in  that  blue  envelope." 

Ford  swung  the  iron  club  in  short  half-circles. 
295 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"Come  in  and  get  them!"  he  called. 

"Don't  trifle  with  me!"  roared  the  Jew,  "or 
I  may  change  my  mind.  Shove  the  money 
through  the  crack  under  the  door." 

"And  get  shot!"  returned  Ford.  "Not  a 
bit  like  it!" 

"If,  in  one  minute,"  shouted  Prothero,  "I 
don't  see  the  money  coming  through  that 
crack,  I'll  begin  shooting  through  this  door, 
and  neither  of  you  will  live!" 

Resting  the  bar  in  the  crook  of  his  elbow, 
Ford  snatched  the  bank-notes  from  the  en 
velope,  and,  sticking  them  in  his  pocket,  placed 
the  empty  envelope  on  the  floor.  Still  keep 
ing  out  of  range,  and  using  his  iron  bar  as  a 
croupier  uses  his  rake,  he  pushed  the  envelope 
across  the  carpet  and  under  the  door.  When 
half  of  it  had  disappeared  from  the  other  side 
of  the  door,  it  was  snatched  from  view. 

An  instant  later  there  was  a  scream  of  anger 
and  on  a  line  where  Ford  would  have  been, 
had  he  knelt  to  shove  the  envelope  under  the 
door,  three  bullets  splintered  through  the  panel. 

At  the  same  moment  the  girl  caught  him  by 
the  wrist.  Unheeding  the  attack  upon  the  door, 
her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  windows.  With 
her  free  hand  she  pointed  at  the  one  at  which 
Ford  had  first  appeared.  The  blind  was  still 
raised  a  few  inches,  and  they  saw  that  the  night 

296 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

was  lit  with  a  strange  and  brilliant  radiance. 
The  storm  had  passed,  and  from  all  the  houses 
that  backed  upon  the  one  in  which  they  were 
prisoners  lights  blazed  from  every  window, 
and  in  each  were  crowded  many  people,  and 
upon  the  roof-tops  in  silhouette  from  the  glare 
of  the  street  lamps  below,  and  in  the  yards  and 
clinging  to  the  walls  that  separated  them,  were 
hundreds  of  other  dark,  shadowy  groups  chang 
ing  and  swaying.  And  from  them  rose  the 
confused,  inarticulate,  terrifying  murmur  of  a 
mob.  It  was  as  though  they  were  on  a  race 
track  at  night  facing  a  great  grandstand  peo 
pled  with  an  army  of  ghosts.  With  the  girl  at 
his  side,  Ford  sprang  to  the  window  and  threw 
up  the  blind,  and  as  they  clung  to  the  bars, 
peering  into  the  night,  the  light  in  the  room 
fell  full  upon  them.  And  in  an  instant  from 
the  windows  opposite,  from  the  yards  below, 
and  from  the  house-tops  came  a  savage,  exul 
tant  yell  of  welcome,  a  confusion  of  cries,  orders, 
entreaties,  a  great  roar  of  warning.  At  the 
sound,  Ford  could  feel  the  girl  at  his  side 
tremble. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  cried. 

"Cuthbert  has  raised  the  neighborhood!" 
shouted  Ford  jubilantly.  "Or  else" — he  cried 
in  sudden  enlightenment — "those  shots  we 
heard " 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

The  girl  stopped  him  with  a  low  cry  of  fear. 
She  thrust  her  arms  between  the  bars  and 
pointed.  In  the  yard  below  them  was  the  slop 
ing  roof  of  the  kitchen.  It  stretched  from  the 
house  to  the  wall  of  the  back  yard.  Above  the 
wall  from  the  yard  beyond  rose  a  ladder,  and, 
face  down  upon  the  roof,  awry  and  sprawling, 
were  the  motionless  forms  of  two  men.  Their 
shining  capes  and  heavy  helmets  proclaimed 
their  calling. 

"The  police!"  exclaimed  Ford.  "And  the 
shots  we  thought  were  for  those  in  the  house 
were  for  them  !  This  is  what  has  happened,'* 
he  whispered  eagerly :  "  Prothero  attacked  Cuth- 
bert.  Cuthbert  gets  away  and  goes  to  the 
police.  He  tells  them  you  are  here  a  prisoner, 
that  I  am  here  probably  a  prisoner,  and  of  the 
attack  upon  himself.  The  police  try  to  make 
an  entrance  from  the  street — that  was  the  first 
shot  we  heard — and  are  driven  back;  then  they 
try  to  creep  in  from  the  yard,  and  those  poor 
devils  were  killed." 

As  he  spoke  a  sudden  silence  had  fallen,  a 
silence  as  startling  as  had  been  the  shout  of 
warning.  Some  fresh  attack  upon  the  house 
which  the  prisoners  could  not  see,  but  which 
must  be  visible  to  those  in  the  houses  opposite, 
was  going  forward. 

"Perhaps  they  are  on  the  roof,"  whispered 
298 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

Ford  joyfully.  "They'll  be  through  the  trap 
in  a  minute,  and  you'll  be  free!" 

"No!"  said  the  girl. 

She  also  spoke  in  a  whisper,  as  though  she 
feared  Prothero  might  hear  her.  And  with 
her  hand  she  again  pointed.  Cautiously  above 
the  top  of  the  ladder  appeared  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  a  man.  He  wore  a  policeman's 
helmet,  but,  warned  by  the  fate  of  his  com 
rades,  he  came  armed.  Balancing  himself  with 
his  left  hand  on  the  rung  of  the  ladder,  he  raised 
the  other  and  pointed  a  revolver.  It  was  ap 
parently  at  the  two  prisoners,  and  Miss  Dale 
sprang  to  one  side. 

" Stand  still ! "  commanded  Ford.  "He  knows 
who  you  are !  You  heard  that  yell  when  they 
saw  you?  They  know  you  are  the  prisoner, 
and  they  are  glad  you're  still  alive.  That  offi 
cer  is  aiming  at  the  window  below  us.  He's 
after  the  men  who  murdered  his  mates." 

From  the  window  directly  beneath  them 
came  the  crash  of  a  rifle,  and  from  the  top  of 
the  ladder  the  revolver  of  the  police  officer 
blazed  in  the  darkness.  Again  the  rifle  crashed, 
and  the  man  on  the  ladder  jerked  his  hands 
above  his  head  and  pitched  backward.  Ford 
looked  into  the  face  of  the  girl  and  found  her 
eyes  filled  with  horror. 

"Where  is  my  uncle,  Pearsall?"  she  faltered. 
299 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"He  has  two  rifles — for  shooting  in  Scotland. 
Was  that  a  rifle  that — "  Her  lips  refused  to 
finish  the  question. 

"It  was  a  rifle,"  Ford  stammered,  "but  prob 
ably  Prothero " 

Even  as  he  spoke'  the  voice  of  the  Jew  rose 
in  a  shriek  from  the  floor  below  them,  but  not 
from  the  window  below  them.  The  sound  was 
from  the  front  room  opening  on  Sowell  Street. 
In  the  awed  silence  that  had  suddenly  fallen 
his  shrieks  carried  sharply.  They  were  more 
like  the  snarls  and  ravings  of  an  animal  than 
the  outcries  of  a  man. 

"Take  that !"  he  shouted,  with  a  flood  of 
oaths,  "and  that,  and  that  /" 

Each  word  was  punctuated  by  the  report 
of  his  automatic,  and,  to  the  amazement  of 
Ford,  was  instantly  answered  from  Sowell 
Street  by  a  scattered  volley  of  rifle  and  pistol 
shots. 

"This  isn't  a  fight,"  he  cried,  "it's  a  battle!" 

With  Miss  Dale  at  his  side,  he  ran  into  the 
front  room,  and,  raising  the  blind,  appeared  at 
the  window.  And  instantly,  as  at  the  other 
end  of  the  house,  there  was,  at  sight  of  the 
woman's  figure,  a  tumult  of  cries,  a  shout  of 
warning,  and  a  great  roar  of  welcome.  From 
beneath  them  a  man  ran  into  the  deserted  street, 
and  in  the  glare  of  the  gas-lamp  Ford  saw  his 

300 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

white,  upturned  face.  He  was  without  a  hat 
and  his  head  was  circled  by  a  bandage.  But 
Ford  recognized  Cuthbert. 

"That's  Ford!"  he  cried,  pointing.  "And 
the  girl's  with  him!"  He  turned  to  a  group  of 
men  crouching  in  the  doorway  of  the  next 
house  to  the  one  in  which  Ford  was  imprisoned. 
"The  girl's  alive!"  he  shouted. 

"The  girl's  alive!"  The  words  were  caught 
up  and  flung  from  window  to  window,  from 
house-top  to  house-top,  with  savage,  jubilant 
cheers. 

Ford  pushed  Miss  Dale  forward. 

"Let  them  see  you,"  he  said,  "and  you  will 
never  see  a  stranger  sight." 

Below  them,  Sowell  Street,  glistening  with 
rain  and  snow,  lay  empty,  but  at  either  end  of 
it,  held  back  by  an  army  of  police,  were  black 
masses  of  men,  and  beyond  them  more  men 
packed  upon  the  tops  of  taxicabs  and  hansoms, 
stretching  as  far  as  the  street-lamps  showed, 
and  on  the  roofs  shadowy  forms  crept  cautiously 
from  chimney  to  chimney;  and  in  the  windows 
of  darkened  rooms  opposite,  from  behind  barri 
cades  of  mattresses  and  upturned  tables,  rifles 
appeared  stealthily,  to  be  lost  in  a  sudden  flash 
of  flame.  And  with  these  flashes  were  others 
that  came  from  windows  and  roofs  with  the 
report  of  a  bursting  bomb,  and  that,  on  the 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

instant,  turned  night  into  day,  and  then  left 
the  darkness  more  dark. 

Ford  gave  a  cry  of  delight. 

"They're  taking  flash-light  photographs!" 
he  cried  jubilantly.  "Well  done,  you  Press 
men!"  The  instinct  of  the  reporter  became 
compelling.  "  If  they're  alive  to  develop  those 
photographs  to-night,"  he  exclaimed  eagerly, 
"Cuthbert  will  send  them  by  special  messenger, 
in  time  to  catch  the  Mauretania  and  the  Re 
public  will  have  them  by  Sunday.  I  mayn't 
be  alive  to  see  them,"  he  added  regretfully, 
"but  what  a  feature  for  the  Sunday  supple 
ment!" 

As  the  eyes  of  the  two  prisoners  became  ac 
customed  to  the  darkness,  they  saw  that  the 
street  was  not,  as  at  first  they  had  supposed, 
entirely  empty.  Directly  below  them  in  the 
gutter,  where  to  approach  it  was  to  invite  in 
stant  death  from  Prothero's  pistol,  lay  the 
dead  body  of  a  policeman,  and  at  the  nearer 
end  of  the  street,  not  fifty  yards  from  them, 
were  three  other  prostrate  forms.  But  these 
forms  were  animate,  and  alive  to  good  purpose. 
From  a  public-house  on  the  corner  a  row  of 
yellow  lamps  showed  them  clearly.  Stretched 
on  pieces  of  board,  and  mats  commandeered 
from  hallways  and  cabs,  each  of  the  three  men 
lay  at  full  length,  nursing  a  rifle.  Their  belted 

302 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

gray  overcoats,  flat,  visored  caps,  and  the  set 
of  their  shoulders  marked  them  for  soldiers. 

"For  the  love  of  Heaven!"  exclaimed  Ford 
incredulously,  "they've  called  out  the  Guards  !" 

As  unconcernedly  as  though  facing  the  butts 
at  a  rifle-range,  the  three  sharp-shooters  were 
firing  point-blank  at  the  windows  from  which 
Prothero  and  Pearsall  were  waging  their  war  to 
the  death  upon  the  instruments  of  law  and 
order.  Beside  them,  on  his  knees  in  the  snow, 
a  young  man  with  the  silver  hilt  of  an  officer's 
sword  showing  through  the  slit  in  his  great 
coat,  was  giving  commands;  and  at  the  other 
end  of  the  street,  a  brother  officer  in  evening 
dress  was  directing  other  sharp-shooters,  bend 
ing  over  them  like  the  coach  of  a  tug-of-war 
team,  pointing  with  white-gloved  fingers.  On 
the  side  of  the  street  from  which  Prothero  was 
firing,  huddled  in  a  doorway,  were  a  group  of 
officials,  inspectors  of  police,  fire  chiefs  in  brass 
helmets,  more  officers  of  the  Guards  in  bear 
skins,  and,  wrapped  in  a  fur  coat,  the  youthful 
Home  Secretary.  Ford  saw  him  wave  his  arm, 
and  at  his  bidding  the  cordon  of  police  broke, 
and  slowly  forcing  its  way  through  the  mass 
of  people  came  a  huge  touring-car,  its  two  blaz 
ing  eyes  sending  before  it  great  shafts  of  light. 

The  driver  of  the  car  wasted  no  time  in  tak 
ing  up  his  position.  Dashing  half-way  down 

303 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

the  street,  he  as  swiftly  backed  the  automobile 
over  the  gutter  and  up  on  the  sidewalk,  so  that 
the  lights  in  front  fell  full  on  the  door  of  No. 
40.  Then,  covered  by  the  fire  from  the  roofs, 
he  sprang  to  the  lamps  and  tilted  them  until 
they  threw  their  shafts  into  the  windows  of 
the  third  story.  Prothero's  hiding-place  was 
now  as  clearly  exposed  as  though  it  were  held 
in  the  circle  of  a  spot-light,  and  at  the  success 
of  the  manoeuvre  the  great  mob  raised  an  ap 
plauding  cheer.  But  the  triumph  was  brief. 
In  a  minute  the  blazing  lamps  had  been  shat 
tered  by  bullets,  and  once  more,  save  for  the 
fierce  flashes  from  rifles  and  pistols,  Sowell  Street 
lay  in  darkness. 

Ford  drew  Miss  Dale  back  into  the  room. 

" Those  men  below,"  he  said,  "are  mad. 
Prothero's  always  been  mad,  and  your — Pear- 
sail — is  mad  with  drugs.  And  the  sight  of 
blood  has  made  them  maniacs.  They  know 
they  now  have  no  chance  to  live.  There's  no 
fear  or  hope  to  hold  them,  and  one  life  more  or 
less  means  nothing.  If  they  should  return 
here " 

He  hesitated,  but  the  girl  nodded  quickly. 
"I  understand,"  she  said. 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  break  down  the  door 
and  get  to  the  roof,"  explained  Ford.  "My 
hope  is  that  this  attack  will  keep  them  from 

hearing,  and " 

304 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"No,"  protested  the  girl.  "They  will  hear 
you,  and  they  will  kill  you." 

"They  may  take  it  into  their  crazy  heads  to 
do  that,  anyway,"  protested  Ford,  "so  the 
sooner  I  get  you  away,  the  better.  I've  only 
to  smash  the  panels  close  to  the  bolts,  put  my 
arm  through  the  hole,  and  draw  the  bolts  back. 
Then,  another  blow  on  the  spring  lock  when 
the  firing  is  loudest,  and  we  are  in  the  hall. 
Should  anything  happen  to  me,  you  must  know 
how  to  make  your  escape  alone.  Across  the 
hall  is  a  door  leading  to  an  iron  ladder.  That 
ladder  leads  to  a  trap-door.  The  trap-door  is 
open.  When  you  reach  the  roof,  run  westward 
toward  a  lighted  building." 

"I  am  not  going  without  you,"  said  Miss 
Dale  quietly;  "not  after  what  you  have  done 
for  me." 

"I  haven't  done  anything  for  you  yet,"  ob 
jected  Ford.  "But  in  case  I  get  caught  I 
mean  to  make  sure  there  will  be  others  on  hand 
who  will." 

He  pulled  his  pencil  and  a  letter  from  his 
pocket,  and  on  the  back  of  the  envelope  wrote 
rapidly :  "  I  will  try  to  get  Miss  Dale  up  through 
the  trap  in  the  roof.  You  can  reach  the  roof 
by  means  of  the  apartment  house  in  Devon 
shire  Street.  Send  men  to  meet  her." 

In  the  groups  of  officials  half  hidden  in  the 
doorway  farther  down  the  street,  he  could  make 

305 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

out  the  bandaged  head  of  Cuthbert.  "Cuth- 
bert !"  he  called.  Weighting  the  envelope  with 
a  coin,  he  threw  it  into  the  air.  It  fell  in  the 
gutter,  under  a  lamp-post,  and  full  in  view, 
and  at  once  the  two  madmen  below  splashed 
the  street  around  it  with  bullets.  But,  in 
different  to  the  bullets,  a  policeman  sprang 
from  a  dark  areaway  and  flung  himself  upon 
it.  The  next  moment  he  staggered.  Then 
limping,  but  holding  himself  erect,  he  ran 
heavily  toward  the  group  of  officials.  The 
Home  Secretary  snatched  the  envelope  from 
him,  and  held  it  toward  the  light. 

In  his  desire  to  learn  if  his  message  had 
reached  those  on  the  outside,  Ford  leaned  far 
over  the  sill  of  the  window.  His  imprudence 
was  all  but  fatal.  From  the  roof  opposite  there 
came  a  sudden  yell  of  warning,  from  directly 
below  him  a  flash,  and  a  bullet  grazed  his  fore 
head  and  shattered  the  window-pane  above 
him.  He  was  deluged  with  a  shower  of  broken 
glass.  Stunned  and  bleeding,  he  sprang  back. 

With  a  cry  of  concern,  Miss  Dale  ran  toward 
him. 

"It's  nothing!"  stammered  Ford.  "It  only 
means  I  must  waste  no  more  time."  He  bal 
anced  his  iron  rod  as  he  would  a  pikestaff,  and 
aimed  it  at  the  upper  half  of  the  door  to  the 
hall. 

306 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

"When  the  next  volley  comes,"  he  said,  "I'll 
smash  the  panel." 

With  the  bar  raised  high,  his  muscles  on  a 
strain,  he  stood  alert  and  poised,  waiting  for 
a  shot  from  the  room  below  to  call  forth  an 
answering  volley  from  the  house-tops.  But 
no  sound  came  from  below.  And  the  sharp 
shooters,  waiting  for  the  madmen  to  expose 
themselves,  held  their  fire. 

Ford's  muscles  relaxed,  and  he  lowered  his 
weapon.  He  turned  his  eyes  inquiringly  to 
the  girl.  "What's  this  mean?"  he  demanded. 
Unconsciously  his  voice  had  again  dropped  to 
a  whisper. 

"They're  short  of  ammunition,"  said  the  girl, 
in  a  tone  as  low  as  his  own;  "or  they  are  com 
ing  here." 

With  a  peremptory  gesture,  Ford  waved  her 
toward  the  room  adjoining  and  then  ran  to 
the  window. 

The  girl  was  leaning  forward  with  her  face 
close  to  the  door.  She  held  the  finger  of  one 
hand  to  her  lips.  With  the  other  hand  she 
beckoned.  Ford  ran  to  her  side. 

"Some  one  is  moving  in  the  hall,"  she  whis 
pered.  "Perhaps  they  are  escaping  by  the 
roof?  No,"  she  corrected  herself.  "They  seem 
to  be  running  down  the  stairs  again.  Now 
they  are  coming  back.  Do  you  hear?"  she 

3°7 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

asked.  "It  sounds  like  some  one  running  up 
and  down  the  stairs.  What  can  it  mean?" 

From  the  direction  of  the  staircase  Ford 
heard  a  curious  creaking  sound  as  of  many 
light  footsteps.  He  gave  a  cry  of  relief. 

"The  police!"  he  shouted  jubilantly. 
'They've  entered  through  the  roof,  and  they're 
going  to  attack  in  the  rear.  You're  safe!" 
he  cried. 

He  sprang  away  from  the  door  and,  with 
two  swinging  blows,  smashed  the  broad  panel. 
And  then,  with  a  cry,  he  staggered  backward. 
Full  in  his  face,  through  the  break  he  had 
made,  swept  a  hot  wave  of  burning  cinders. 
Through  the  broken  panel  he  saw  the  hall 
choked  with  smoke,  the  steps  of  the  staircase 
and  the  stair-rails  wrapped  in  flame. 

"The  house  is  on  fire!"  he  cried.  "They've 
taken  to  the  roof  and  set  fire  to  the  stairs  be 
hind  them!"  With  the  full  strength  of  his 
arms  and  shoulders  he  struck  and  smashed  the 
iron  bar  against  the  door.  But  the  bolts  held, 
and  through  each  fresh  opening  he  made  in 
the  panels  the  burning  cinders,  drawn  by 
the  draft  from  the  windows,  swept  into  the 
room.  From  the  street  a  mighty  yell  of  con 
sternation  told  them  the  fire  had  been  dis 
covered.  Miss  Dale  ran  to  the  window,  and 
the  yell  turned  to  a  great  cry  of  warning.  The 

308 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

air  was  rent  with  frantic  voices.  "Jump!" 
cried  some.  "Go  back!"  entreated  others. 
The  fire  chief  ran  into  the  street  directly  below 
her  and  shouted  at  her  through  his  hands. 
"Wait  for  the  life-net  I"  he  commanded.  "Wait 
for  the  ladders!" 

"Ladders!"  panted  Ford.  "Before  they  can 
get  their  engines  through  that  mob ' 

Through  the  jagged  opening  in  the  door  he 
thrust  his  arm  and  jerked  free  the  upper  bolt. 
An  instant  later  he  had  kicked  the  lower  panel 
into  splinters  and  withdrawn  the  second  bolt, 
and  at  last,  under  the  savage  onslaught  of  his 
iron  bar,  the  spring  lock  flew  apart.  The  hall 
lay  open  before  him.  On  one  side  of  it  the 
burning  staircase  was  a  well  of  flame;  at  his 
feet,  the  matting  on  the  floor  was  burning 
fiercely.  He  raced  into  the  bedroom  and  re 
turned  instantly,  carrying  a  blanket  and  a 
towel  dripping  with  water.  He  pressed  the 
towel  across  the  girFs  mouth  and  nostrils. 
"Hold  it  there!"  he  commanded.  Blinded  by 
the  bandage,  Miss  Dale  could  see  nothing,  but 
she  felt  herself  suddenly  wrapped  in  the  blanket 
and  then  lifted  high  in  Ford's  arms.  She  gave 
a  cry  of  protest,  but  the  next  instant  he  was 
running  with  her  swiftly  while  the  flames  from 
the  stair-well  scorched  her  hair.  She  was  sud 
denly  tumbled  to  her  feet,  the  towel  and  blanket 

309 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

snatched  away,  and  she  saw  Ford  hanging 
from  an  iron  ladder  holding  out  his  hand. 
She  clasped  it,  and  he  drew  her  after  him,  the 
flames  and  cinders  pursuing  and  snatching 
hungrily. 

But  an  instant  later  the  cold  night  air  smote 
her  in  the  face,  from  hundreds  of  hoarse  throats 
a  yell  of  welcome  greeted  her,  and  she  found 
herself  on  the  roof,  dazed  and  breathless,  and 
free. 

At  the  same  moment  the  lifting  fire-ladder 
reached  the  sill  of  the  third-story  window,  and 
a  fireman,  shielding  his  face  from  the  flames, 
peered  into  the  blazing  room.  What  he  saw 
showed  him  there  were  no  lives  to  rescue. 
Stretched  on  the  floor,  with  their  clothing  in 
cinders  and  the  flames  licking  at  the  flesh,  were 
the  bodies  of  the  two  murderers. 

A  bullet-hole  in  the  forehead  of  each  showed 
that  self-destruction  and  cremation  had  seemed 
a  better  choice  than  the  gallows  and  a  grave  of 
quick-lime. 

On  the  roof  above,  two  young  people  stood 
breathing  heavily  and  happily,  staring  incredu 
lously  into  each  other's  eyes.  Running  toward 
them  across  the  roofs,  stumbling  and  falling, 
were  many  blue-coated,  helmeted  angels  of 
peace  and  law  and  order. 

"How  can  I  tell  you?"  whispered  the  girl 
310 


THE  LOST  HOUSE 

quickly.  "How  can  I  ever  thank  you?  And 
I  was  angry,"  she  exclaimed,  with  self-reproach. 
"I  did  not  understand  you."  She  gave  a  little 
sigh  of  content.  "Now  I  think  I  do." 

He  took  her  hand,  and  she  did  not  seem  to 
know  that  he  held  it. 

"And,"  she  cried,  in  wonder,  "7  don't  even 
know  your  name  /" 

The  young  man  seemed  to  have  lost  his  con 
fidence.  For  a  moment  he  was  silent.  "The 
name's  all  right!"  he  said  finally.  His  voice 
was  still  a  little  shaken,  a  little  tremulous.  "I 
only  hope  you'll  like  it.  It's  got  to  last  you  a 
long  time!" 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY 
POLLY*" 

TEMPTATION  came  to  me  when  I  was  in  the 
worst  possible  position  to  resist  it. 

It  is  a  way  temptation  has.  Whenever  I 
swear  off  drinking  invariably  I  am  invited  to 
an  ushers'  dinner.  Whenever  I  am  rich,  only 
the  highbrow  publications  that  pay  the  least, 
want  my  work.  But  the  moment  I  am  poverty- 
stricken  the  Manicure  Girl's  Magazine  and  the 
Rot  and  Spot  Weekly  spring  at  me  with  offers 
of  a  dollar  a  word.  Temptation  always  is  on 
the  job.  When  I  am  down  and  out  temptation 
always  is  up  and  at  me. 

When  first  the  Farrells  tempted  me  my  vogue 
had  departed.  On  my  name  and  "past  per 
formances"  I  could  still  dispose  of  what  I 
wrote,  but  only  to  magazines  that  were  just 
starting.  The  others  knew  I  no  longer  was  a 
best-seller.  AH  the  real  editors  knew  it.  So 
did  the  theatrical  managers. 

My  books  and  plays  had  flourished  in  the 
dark  age  of  the  historical-romantic  novel.  My 
heroes  wore  gauntlets  and  long  swords.  They 
fought  for  the  Cardinal  or  the  King,  and  each 

312 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY* 

loved  a  high-born  demoiselle  who  was  a  ward 
of  the  King  or  the  Cardinal,  and  with  feminine 
perversity,  always  of  whichever  one  her  young 
man  was  fighting.  With  people  who  had  never 
read  Guizot's  "History  of  France,"  my  books 
were  popular,  and  for  me  made  a  great  deal  of 
money.  This  was  fortunate,  for  my  parents 
had  left  me  nothing  save  expensive  tastes. 
When  the  tastes  became  habits,  the  public  left 
me.  It  turned  to  white-slave  and  crook  plays, 
and  to  novels  true  to  life;  so  true  to  life  that 
one  felt  the  author  must  at  one  time  have  been 
a  masseur  in  a  Turkish  bath. 

So,  my  heroines  in  black  velvet,  and  my 
heroes  with  long  swords  were  "scrapped.'* 
As  one  book  reviewer  put  it,  "To  expect  the 
public  of  to-day  to  read  the  novels  of  Fletcher 
Farrell  is  like  asking  people  to  give  up  the  bunny 
hug  and  go  back  to  the  lancers." 

And,  to  make  it  harder,  I  was  only  thirty 
years  old. 

It  was  at  this  depressing  period  in  my  career 
that  I  received  a  letter  from  Fairharbor,  Massa 
chusetts,  signed  Fletcher  Farrell.  The  letter 
was  written  on  the  business  paper  of  the  Far 
rell  Cotton  Mills,  and  asked  if  I  were  related 
to  the  Farrells  of  Duncannon,  of  the  County 
Wexford,  who  emigrated  to  Massachusetts  in 
1860.  The  writer  added  that  he  had  a  grand 
ad 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

father  named  Fletcher  and  suggested  we  might 
be  related.  From  the  handwriting  of  Fletcher 
Farrell  and  from  the  way  he  ill-treated  the 
King's  English  I  did  not  feel  the  ties  of  kin 
ship  calling  me  very  loud.  I  replied  briefly 
that  my  people  originally  came  from  Youghal, 
in  County  Cork,  that  as  early  as  iy5o  they  had 
settled  in  New  York,  and  that  all  my  relations 
on  the  Farrell  side  either  were  still  at  Youghal, 
or  dead.  Mine  was  not  an  encouraging  letter; 
nor  did  I  mean  it  to  be;  and  I  was  greatly  sur 
prised  two  days  later  to  receive  a  telegram 
reading,  "Something  to  your  advantage  to 
communicate;  wife  and  self  calling  on  you 
Thursday  at  noon.  Fletcher  Farrell."  I  was 
annoyed,  but  also  interested.  The  words 
"something  to  your  advantage'*  always  possess 
a  certain  charm.  So,  when  the  elevator  boy 
telephoned  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farrell  were  call 
ing,  I  told  him  to  bring  them  up. 

My  first  glance  at  the  Farrells  convinced  me 
the  interview  was  a  waste  of  time.  I  was  satis 
fied  that  from  two  such  persons,  nothing  to  my 
advantage  could  possibly  emanate.  On  the 
contrary,  from  their  lack  of  ease,  it  looked  as 
though  they  had  come  to  beg  or  borrow.  They 
resembled  only  a  butler  and  housekeeper  apply 
ing  for  a  new  place  under  the  disadvantage  of 
knowing  they  had  no  reference  from  the  last 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

one.  Of  the  two,  I  better  liked  the  man. 
He  was  an  elderly,  pleasant-faced  Irishman, 
smooth-shaven,  red-cheeked,  and  with  white 
hair.  Although  it  was  July,  he  wore  a  frock 
coat,  and  carried  a  new  high  hat  that  glistened. 
As  though  he  thought  at  any  moment  it  might 
explode,  he  held  it  from  him,  and  eyed  it  fear 
fully.  Mrs.  Farrell  was  of  a  more  sophisticated 
type.  The  lines  in  her  face  and  hands  showed 
that  for  years  she  might  have  known  hard 
physical  work.  But  her  dress  was  in  the  latest 
fashion,  and  her  fingers  held  more  diamonds 
than,  out  of  a  showcase,  I  ever  had  seen. 

With  embarrassment  old  man  Farrell  began 
his  speech.  Evidently  it  had  been  rehearsed 
and  as  he  recited  it,  in  swift  asides,  his  wife 
prompted  him;  but  to  note  the  effect  he  was 
making,  she  kept  her  eyes  upon  me.  Having 
first  compared  my  name,  fame,  and  novels  with 
those  of  Charles  Dickens,  Walter  Scott,  and 
Archibald  Clavering  Gunter,  and  to  the  dis 
advantage  of  those  gentlemen,  Farrell  said  the 
similarity  of  our  names  often  had  been  com 
mented  upon,  and  that  when  from  my  letter 
he  had  learned  our  families  both  were  from  the 
South  of  Ireland,  he  had  a  premonition  we  might 
be  related.  Duncannon,  where  he  was  born, 
he  pointed  out,  was  but  forty  miles  from  You- 
ghal,  and  the  fishing  boats  out  of  Waterford 

3*5 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

Harbor  often  sought  shelter  in  Blackwater 
River.  Had  any  of  my  forebears,  he  asked, 
followed  the  herring? 

Alarmed,  lest  at  this  I  might  take  offense, 
Mrs.  Farrell  interrupted  him. 

"The  Fletchers  and  OTarrells  of  Youghal," 
she  exclaimed,  "were  gentry.  What  would 
they  be  doing  in  a  trawler?" 

I  assured  her  that  so  far  as  I  knew,  1750 
being  before  my  time,  they  might  have  been 
smugglers  and  pirates. 

"All  I  ever  heard  of  the  Farrells,"  I  told  her, 
"begins  after  they  settled  in  New  York.  And 
there  is  no  one  I  can  ask  concerning  them. 
My  father  and  mother  are  dead;  all  my  father's 
relatives  are  dead,  and  my  mother's  relatives 
are  as  good  as  dead.  I  mean,"  I  added,  "we 
don't  speak!" 

To  my  surprise,  this  information  appeared 
to  afford  my  visitors  great  satisfaction.  They 
exchanged  hasty  glances. 

"Then,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Farrell,  eagerly;  "if 
I  understand  you,  you  have  no  living  relations 
at  all — barring  those  that  are  dead!" 

"Exactly!"  I  agreed. 

He  drew  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  With  apparent 
irrelevance  but  with  a  carelessness  that  was 
obviously  assumed,  he  continued. 

"Since  I  come  to  America,"  he  announced* 
316 


"  I  have  made  heaps  of  money."  As  though  in 
evidence  of  his  prosperity,  he  flashed  the  high 
hat.  In  the  sunlight  it  coruscated  like  one  of 
his  wife's  diamonds.  "Heaps  of  money,"  he 
repeated.  "The  mills  are  still  in  my  name/* 
he  went  on,  "but  five  years  since  I  sold  them. 
We  live  on  the  income.  We  own  Harbor 
Castle,  the  finest  house  on  the  whole  water 
front." 

"When  all  the  windows  are  lit  up,"  inter 
jected  Mrs.  Farrell,  "it's  often  took  for  a  Fall 
River  boat!" 

"When  I  was  building  it,"  Farrell  continued, 
smoothly,  "they  called  it  FarrelFs  Folly;  but 
not  now.'9  In  friendly  fashion  he  winked  at 
me,  "Standard  Oil,"  he  explained,  "offered  half 
a  million  for  it.  They  wanted  my  wharf  for 
their  tank  steamers.  But,  I  needed  it  for  my 
yacht!" 

I  must  have  sat  up  rather  too  suddenly,  for, 
seeing  the  yacht  had  reached  home,  Mr.  Far 
rell  beamed.  Complacently  his  wife  smoothed 
an  imaginary  wrinkle  in  her  skirt. 

"Eighteen  men!"  she  protested,  "with  noth 
ing  to  do  but  clean  brass  and  eat  three  meals 
a  day!" 

Farrell  released  his  death  grip  on  the  silk 
hat  to  make  a  sweeping  gesture. 

"They  earn  their  wages,"  he  said  generously. 
317 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY'" 

"Aren't   they   taking   us   this   week   to   Cape 
May?" 

"They're  taking  the  yacht  to  Cape  May!" 
corrected  Mrs.  Farrell;  "not  me  !" 

"The  sea  does  not  agree  with  her,"  explained 
Farrell;  "we9 re  going  by  auti-mobile." 

Mrs.  Farrell  now  took  up  the  wondrous  tale. 
.  ^"It's  a  High  Flyer,    1915   model,"  she  ex 
plained;     "green,   with   white   enamel   leather 
inside,  and  red  wheels  outside.    You  can  see 
it  from  the  window." 

Somewhat  dazed,  I  stepped  to  the  window 
and  found  you  could  see  it  from  almost  any 
where.  It  was  as  large  as  a  freight  car;  and 
was  entirely  surrounded  by  taxi-starters,  bell 
boys,  and  nurse-maids.  The  chauffeur,  and  a 
deputy  chauffeur,  in  a  green  livery  with  patent- 
leather  leggings,  were  frowning  upon  the  mob. 
They  possessed  the  hauteur  of  ambulance  sur 
geons.  I  returned  to  my  chair,  and  then  rose 
hastily  to  ask  if  I  could  not  offer  Mr.  Farrell 
some  refreshment. 

"Mebbe  later,"  he  said.  Evidently  he  felt 
that  as  yet  he  had  not  sufficiently  impressed 
me. 

"Harbor  Castle,"  he  recited,  "has  eighteen 
bedrooms,  billiard-room,  music-room,  art  gal 
lery  and  swimming-pool."  He  shook  his  head. 
"And  no  one  to  use  'em  but  us.  We  had  a 

318 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

boy."  He  stopped,  and  for  an  instant,  as 
though  asking  pardon,  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
knee  of  Mrs.  Farrell.  "But  he  was  taken  when 
he  was  four,  and  none  came  since.  My  wife 
has  a  niece,"  he  added,  "but — 

"But,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Farrell,  "she  was 
too  high  and  mighty  for  plain  folks,  and  now 
there  is  no  one.  We  always  took  an  interest 
in  you  because  your  name  was  Farrell.  We 
were  always  reading  of  you  in  the  papers.  We 
have  all  your  books,  and  a  picture  of  you  in 
the  billiard-room.  When  folks  ask  me  if  we 
are  any  relation — sometimes  I  tell  'em  we  are." 

As  though  challenging  me  to  object,  she 
paused. 

"It's  quite  possible,"  I  said  hastily.  And, 
in  order  to  get  rid  of  them,  I  added:  "I'll  tell 
you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  write  to  Ireland  and 

Farrell  shook  his  head  firmly.  "You  don't 
need  to  write  to  Ireland,"  he  said,  "for  what 
we  want." 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked. 

"We  want  a  son,"  said  Farrell;  "an  adopted 
son.  We  want  to  adopt  you  ! " 

"You  want  to  what?19  I  asked. 

To  learn  if  Mrs.  Farrell  also  was  mad,  I 
glanced  toward  her,  but  her  expression  was 
inscrutable.  The  face  of  the  Irishman  had 
grown  purple. 

319 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

"And  why  not?"  he  demanded.  "You're  a 
famous  young  man,  all  right,  and  educated. 
But  there's  nothing  about  me  I'm  ashamed  of! 
I'm  worth  five  million  dollars  and  I  made  every 
cent  of  it  myself — and  I  made  it  honest.  You 
ask  Dun  or  Bradstreet,  ask " 

I  attempted  to  soothe  him. 

"That's  not  it,  sir,"  I  explained.  "It's  a 
most  generous  offer,  a  most  flattering,  compli 
mentary  offer.  But  you  don't  know  me.  I 
don't  know  you.  Choosing  a  son  is  a  very " 

"I've  had  you  looked  up,"  announced  Mrs. 
Farrell.  "The  Pinkertons  give  you  a  high  rat 
ing.  I  hired  'em  to  trail  you  for  six  months." 

I  wanted  to  ask  which  six  months,  but  de 
cided  to  let  sleeping  dogs  lie.  I  shook  my 
head.  Politely  but  firmly  I  delivered  my  ulti 
matum. 

"It  is  quite  impossible!"  I  said  firmly. 

Mrs.  Farrell  continued  the  debate.  She 
talked  in  a  businesslike  manner  and  pro 
nounced  the  arrangement  one  by  which  both 
sides  would  benefit.  There  were  thousands  of 
other  Farrells,  she  pointed  out,  any  one  of 
whom  they  might  have  adopted.  But  they 
had  selected  me  because  in  so  choosing,  they 
thought  they  were  taking  the  least  risk.  They 
had  decided,  she  was  pleased  to  say,  that  I 
would  not  disgrace  them,  and  that  as  a  "lit- 

320 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

erary  author"  I  brought  with  me  a  certain 
social  asset. 

A  clever,  young  businessman  they  did  not 
want.  Their  business  affairs  they  were  quite 
able  to  manage  themselves.  But  they  would 
like  as  an  adopted  son  one  who  had  already 
added  glory  to  the  name  of  Farrell,  which  glory 
he  was  willing  to  share. 

"We  wouldn't  tie  you  down,"  she  urged, 
"but  we  would  expect  you  to  live  at  Harbor 
Castle  a  part  of  your  time,  and  to  call  us  Ma 
and  Pa.  You  would  have  your  own  rooms, 
and  your  own  servant,  and  there  is  a  boat- 
house  on  the  harbor  front,  where  you  could 
write  your  novels." 

At  this,  knowing  none  wanted  my  novels,  I 
may  have  winced,  for,  misreading  my  discon 
tent,  Farrell  hastily  interrupted. 

"You  won't  have  to  work  at  all,"  he  pro 
tested  heartily.  "My  son  can  afford  to  live 
like  a  lord.  You'll  get  all  the  spending  money 
you  want,  and  if  you're  fond  of  foreign 
parts,  you  can  take  the  yacht  wherever  you 
please!" 

"The  farther  the  better,"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Farrell  with  heat.  "And  when  you  get  it 
there,  I  hope  you'll  sink  it!" 

"Maybe  your  friends  would  come  and  visit 
you,"  suggested  Farrell,  I  thought,  a  trifle 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

wistfully.  "There's  bathing,  tennis,  eighteen 
bedrooms,  billiard-room,  art  gallery 

"You  told  him  that!"  said  Mrs.  Farrell. 

I  was  greatly  at  a  loss.  Their  offer  was  pre 
posterous,  but  to  them,  it  was  apparently  a 
perfectly  possible  arrangement.  Nor  were  they 
acting  on  impulse.  Mrs.  Farrell  had  admitted 
that  for  six  months  she  had  had  me  "trailed." 
How  to  say  "No"  and  not  give  offense,  I  found 
difficult.  They  were  deeply  in  earnest  and  I 
could  see  that  Farrell,  at  least,  was  by  instinct 
generous,  human,  and  kind.  It  was,  in  fact, 
a  most  generous  offer.  But  how  was  I  to  tell 
them  tactfully  I  was  not  for  sale,  that  I  was 
not  looking  for  "ready-to-wear"  parents,  and 
that  if  I  were  in  the  market,  they  were  not  the 
parents  I  would  choose.  I  had  a  picture  of 
life  at  Harbor  Castle,  dependent  upon  the 
charity  of  the  Farrells.  I  imagined  what  my 
friends  would  say  to  me,  and  worse,  what  they 
would  say  behind  my  back.  But  I  was  not 
forced  to  a  refusal. 

Mr.  Farrell  rose. 

"We  don't  want  to  hurry  you,"  he  said. 
"We  want  you  to  think  it  over.  Maybe  if  we 
get  acquainted 

Mrs.  Farrell  smiled  upon  me  ingratiatingly. 

"Why  don't  we  get  acquainted  now?"  she 
demanded.  "We're  motoring  down  to  Cape 

322 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

May  to  stay  three  weeks.  Why  don't  you 
come  along — as  our  guest — and  see  how  you  like 
us?" 

I  assured  them,  almost  too  hastily,  that  I 
already  was  deeply  engaged. 

As  they  departed,  Farrell  again  admonished 
me  to  think  it  over. 

"And  look  me  up  at  Dun's  and  Bradstreet's," 
he  advised.  "Ask  'em  about  me  at  the  Wal 
dorf.  Ask  the  head  waiters  and  bellhops  if  I 
look  twice  at  a  five  spot!" 

It  seemed  an  odd  way  to  select  a  father,  but 
I  promised. 

I  escorted  them  even  to  the  sidewalk,  and 
not  without  envy  watched  them  sweep  toward 
the  Waldorf  in  the  High  Flyer,  1915  model. 
I  caught  myself  deciding,  were  it  mine,  I  would 
paint  it  gray. 

I  was  lunching  at  the  Ritz  with  Curtis 
Spencer,  and  I  looked  forward  to  the  delight 
he  would  take  in  my  story  of  the  Farrells.  He 
would  probably  want  to  write  it.  He  was  my 
junior,  but  my  great  friend;  and  as  a  novelist 
his  popularity  was  where  five  years  earlier  mine 
had  been.  But  he  belonged  to  the  new  school. 
His  novels  smelled  like  a  beauty  parlor;  and 
his  heroines,  while  always  beautiful,  were,  on 
occasions,  virtuous,  but  only  when  they  thought 
it  would  pay. 

323 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

Spencer  himself  was  as  moderiTas  his  novels, 
and  I  was  confident  his  view  of  my  adventure 
would  be  that  of  the  great  world  which  he  de 
scribed  so  accurately. 

But  to  my  amazement  when  I  had  finished 
he  savagely  attacked  me. 

"You  idiot!"  he  roared.  "Are  you  trying 
to  tell  me  you  refused  five  million  dollars — 
just  because  you  didn't  like  the  people  who 
wanted  to  force  it  on  you?  Where,"  he  de 
manded,  "is  Cape  May?  We'll  follow  them 
now !  We'll  close  this  deal  before  they  can 
change  their  minds.  I'll  make  you  sign  to 
night.  And,  then,"  he  continued  eagerly,  "we'll 
take  their  yacht  and  escape  to  Newport,  and 
you'll  lend  me  five  thousand  dollars,  and  pay 
my  debts,  and  give  me  back  the  ten  you  bor 
rowed.  And  you  might  buy  me  a  touring-car 
and  some  polo  ponies  and — and — oh,  lots  of 
things.  I'll  think  of  them  as  we  go  along. 
Meanwhile,  I  can't  afford  to  give  luncheons  to 
millionaires,  so  you  sign  for  this  one;  and  then 
we'll  start  for  Cape  May." 

"Are  you  mad?"  I  demanded;  "do  you 
think  I'd  sell  my  honor!" 

"For  five  million  dollars?"  cried  Spencer. 
"Don't  make  me  laugh!  If  they  want  a  real 
novelist  for  a  son  they  can  adopt  me ! " 

I  replied  with  dignity  that  I  would  not  dis 
grace  the  memory  of  my  parents. 

324 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY* 

"You  have  disgraced  them!"  retorted  Spen 
cer,  "with  your  Musketeer  novels  for  infants. 
You  need  money.  To  get  it  you  may  be 
tempted  to  write  more  novels.  Here's  your 
chance!  Stop  robbing  the  public,  and  lead  an 
honest  life.  Think  of  all  the  money  you  could 
give  to  the  poor,  think  of  all  the  money  you 
and  I  could  lose  at  Monte  Carlo!" 

When  he  found  I  would  not  charter  an  auto 
mobile  and  at  once  pursue  the  Farrells  he 
changed  his  tactics.  If  I  would  not  go  to 
Cape  May,  then,  he  begged,  I  would  go  to 
Fairharbor.  He  asked  that  I  would,  at  least, 
find  out  what  I  was  refusing.  Before  making 
their  offer,  for  six  months,  the  Farrells  had  had 
me  "looked  up,"  but,  without  knowing  any 
thing  of  them,  after  a  talk  of  ten  minutes  I 
had  turned  them  down.  "Was  that,"  he  asked, 
"intelligent?  Was  it  fair  to  the  Farrells?" 
He  continued  to  tempt  me. 

"They  told  you  to  think  it  over,"  he  per 
sisted.  "Very  well,  then,  think  it  over  at 
Fairharbor!  For  the  next  three  weeks  the 
Farrells  will  be  at  Cape  May.  The  coast  is 
clear.  Go  to  Fairharbor  as  somebody  else  and 
be  your  own  detective.  Find  out  if  what  they 
tell  you  is  true.  Get  inside  information.  Get 
inside  Harbor  Castle.  Count  the  eighteen  bed 
rooms  and  try  the  beds.  Never  mind  the  art 
gallery,  but  make  sure  there  is  a  wine  cellar. 

325 


'THE   LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

You  can't  start  too  soon,  and  /  will  go  with 
you  /" 

I  told  him  where  he  could  go. 

We  then  tossed  to  see  who  should  pay  for 
the  lunch  and  who  should  tip  the  head  waiter. 
I  lost  and  had  to  tip  the  head  waiter.  We  sep 
arated,  and  as  I  walked  down  the  Avenue,  it 
seemed  as  though  to  the  proprietor  of  every 
shop  I  passed  I  owed  money.  Owing  them  the 
money  I  did  not  so  much  mind;  what  most  dis 
tressed  me  was  that  they  were  so  polite  about 
it.  I  had  always  wanted  to  reward  their  pa 
tience.  A  favorite  dream  of  mine  was  to  be 
able  to  walk  down  Fifth  Avenue,  my  pockets 
stuffed  with  yellow  bills,  paying  off  my  debts. 
Compared  with  my  steadily  decreasing  income, 
how  enormous  my  debts  appeared;  but  when 
compared  with  the  income  of  a  man  worth — 
say — five  million  dollars,  how  ridiculous !  I 
had  no  more  than  reached  my  apartment,  than 
a  messenger-boy  arrived  with  an  envelope. 
It  contained  a  ticket  for  a  round  trip  on  the 
New  Bedford  Line  boat  leaving  that  afternoon 
a  ticket  for  a  stateroom,  and  a  note  from  Curtis 
Spencer.  The  latter  read:  "The  boat  leaves 
at  six  to-night.  You  arrive  at  New  Bedford 
seven  to-morrow  morning.  New  Bedford  and 
Fairharbor  are  connected  by  a  bridge.  Cross 
it!" 

326 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

I  tore  the  note  in  tiny  fragments,  and  tossed 
them  through  the  open  window.  I  was  exceed 
ingly  angry.  As  I  stood  at  the  window  adding 
to  the  name  of  Curtis  Spencer  insulting  aliases, 
the  street  below  sent  up  hot,  stifling  odors: 
the  smoke  of  taxicabs,  the  gases  of  an  open 
subway,  the  stale  reek  of  thousands  of  per 
spiring,  unwashed  bodies.  From  that  one  side 
street  seemed  to  rise  the  heat  and  smells  of  all 
New  York.  For  relief  I  turned  to  my  work- 
table  where  lay  the  opening  chapters  of  my  new 
novel,  "The  White  Plume  of  Savoy."  But 
now,  in  the  light  of  Spencer's  open  scorn,  I 
saw  it  was  impudently  false,  childish,  senti 
mental.  My  head  ached,  the  humidity  sapped 
my  strength,  at  heart  I  felt  sick,  sore,  discour 
aged.  I  was  down  and  out.  And  seeing  this, 
Temptation,  like  an  obsequious  floor-walker, 
came  hurrying  forward. 

"And  what  may  I  show  you  to-day?"  asked 
Temptation.  He  showed  me  the  upper  deck 
of  the  New  Bedford  boat  feeling  her  way  be 
tween  the  green  banks  of  the  Sound.  A  cool 
wind  swept  past  me  bearing  clean,  salty  odors; 
on  the  saloon  deck  a  band  played,  and  from 
the  darkness  the  lighthouses  winked  at  me, 
and  in  friendly  greeting  the  stars  smiled.  Temp 
tation  won.  In  five  minutes  I  was  feverishly 
packing,  and  at  five-thirty  I  was  on  board.  I 

327 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY  POLLY' 

assured  myself  I  had  not  listened  to  Tempta 
tion,  that  I  had  no  interest  in  Fairharbor.  I 
was  taking  the  trip  solely  because  it  would  give 
me  a  night's  sleep  on  the  Sound.  I  promised 
myself  that  on  the  morrow  I  would  not  even 
look  toward  Harbor  Castle;  but  on  the  evening 
following  on  the  same  boat,  return  to  New  York. 
Temptation  did  not  stop  to  argue,  but  hastened 
after  another  victim. 

I  turned  in  at  nine  o'clock  and  the  coolness, 
and  the  salt  air,  blessed  me  with  the  first  sleep 
I  had  known  in  weeks.  And  when  I  woke 
we  were  made  fast  to  the  company's  wharf  at 
New  Bedford,  and  the  sun  was  well  up.  I 
rose  refreshed  in  body  and  spirit.  No  longer 
was  I  discouraged.  Even  "The  White  Plume  of 
Savoy"  seemed  a  perfectly  good  tale  of  romance 
and  adventure.  And  the  Farrells  were  a  joke. 
Even  if  I  were  at  Fairharbor,  I  was  there  only 
on  a  lark,  and  at  the  expense  of  Curtis  Spencer, 
who  had  paid  for  the  tickets.  Distinctly  the 
joke  was  on  Curtis  Spencer.  I  lowered  the 
window  screen,  and  looked  across  the  har 
bor.  It  was  a  beautiful  harbor.  At  ancient 
stone  wharfs  lay  ancient  whalers  with  droop 
ing  davits  and  squared  yards,  at  anchor  white- 
breasted  yachts  flashed  in  the  sun,  a  gray  man- 
of-war's  man  flaunted  the  week's  laundry,  a 
four-masted  schooner  dried  her  canvas,  and 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY  POLLY' 

over  the  smiling  surface  of  the  harbor  innu 
merable  fishing  boats  darted.  With  delight  I 
sniffed  the  odors  of  salt  water,  sun-dried  her 
ring,  of  oakum  and  tar.  The  shore  opposite 
was  a  graceful  promontory  crowned  with  trees 
and  decorous  gray-shingled  cottages  set  in  tiny 
gardens  that  reached  to  the  very  edge  of  the 
harbor.  The  second  officer  was  passing  my 
window  and  I  asked  what  the  promontory  was 
called. 

"Fairharbor,"  he  said.  He  answered  with 
such  proprietary  pride  and  smiled  upon  Fair- 
harbor  with  such  approval  that  I  ventured  to 
guess  it  was  his  home. 

" That's  right,"  he  said;  "I  used  to  live  at 
the  New  York  end  of  the  run — in  a  flat.  But 
never  again !  No  place  for  the  boy  to  play  but 
in  the  street.  I  found  I  could  rent  one  of 
those  old  cottages  over  there  for  the  same 
money  I  paid  for  the  flat.  So  I  cut  out  New 
York.  My  boy  lives  in  a  bathing  suit  now, 
and  he  can  handle  a  catboat  same  as  me.  We 
have  a  kitchen  garden,  and  hens,  and  the  fish 
ermen  here  will  give  you  all  the  fish  you  can 
carry  away — fish  right  out  of  the  water.  I  guess 
I've  smashed  the  high  cost  of  living  problem 
all  right.  I  wouldn't  go  back  to  living  in  New 
York  now — not  if  they  gave  me  the  Pilgrim  !" 

As  though  trying  to  prod  my  memory,  I 
329 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

frowned.  It  was  my  conception  of  the  part  of 
a  detective.  "Hasn't  Fletcher  Farrell,"  I  asked, 
"a  house  in  Fairharbor?" 

"Harbor  Castle,"  said  the  mate  promptly. 
"It's  on  the  other  side  of  the  point.  I'd  as 
soon  live  in  a  jail!" 

"Why?"  I  exclaimed. 

But  he  was  no  longer  listening.  He  pointed 
at  the  shore  opposite. 

"See  that  flag  running  up  the  staff  in  that 
garden?"  he  cried.  "That's  my  boy  signalling. 
I  got  to  get  to  the  boat  deck  and  wave  back!" 

I  felt  as  a  detective.  I  had  acquired  im 
portant  information.  The  mate,  a  man  of 
judgment,  preferred  Fairharbor  to  New  York. 
Also,  to  living  in  Harbor  Castle,  he  preferred 
going  to  jail. 

The  boat  on  which  I  had  arrived  was  listed 
to  start  back  at  six  the  same  evening  on  her 
return  trip  to  New  York.  So,  at  the  office  of 
the  line  I  checked  my  valise,  and  set  forth  to 
explore  New  Bedford. 

The  whaling  vessels  moored  to  a  nearby 
wharf,  I  inspected  from  hatches  to  keels,  and 
by  those  on  board  was  directed  to  a  warehouse 
where  were  stored  harpoons,  whalebone,  and 
wooden  figure-heads.  My  pleasure  in  these  led 
to  my  being  passed  on  to  a  row  of  "antique" 
shops  filled  with  relics  of  the  days  of  whaling 

330 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

and  also  with  genuine  pie-crust  tables,  genuine 
flint-lock  muskets,  genuine  Liverpool  pitchers. 
I  coveted  especially  old-time  engravings  of  the 
whalers,  and  was  told  at  Hatchardson's  book 
store  on  the  main  street  others  could  be  found 
in  profusion. 

Hatchardson's  proved  to  be  a  place  of  great 
delight.  As  you  entered  there  were  counters 
for  magazines  and  post-cards,  popular  music, 
and  best-selling  novels,  while  in  the  rear  of  the 
shop  tables  and  shelves  were  stocked  with  an 
cient  volumes,  and  on  the  wall  surrounding 
them  hung  engravings,  prints  and  woodcuts  of 
even  the  eighteenth  century.  Just  as  the  drug 
store  on  the  corner  seemed  to  be  a  waiting 
station  for  those  of  New  Bedford  who  used  the 
trolley-cars,  so  for  those  who  moved  in  auto 
mobiles,  or  still  clung  to  the  family  carriage, 
Hatchardson's  appeared  to  be  less  a  shop  than 
a  public  meeting-place.  I  noticed  that  the 
clerks,  most  of  whom  were  women,  were  with 
the  customers  on  a  most  friendly  footing,  ad 
dressing  them,  and  by  them  being  addressed 
by  name.  Finding  I  was  free  to  wander  where 
I  pleased,  I  walked  to  the  rear  of  the  shop  and 
from  one  of  the  tables  picked  up  a  much-worn 
volume.  It  was  entitled  "The  Log  of  the 
Jolly  Polly"  and  was  illustrated  with  wood 
cuts  showing  square-rigged  ships  and  whales 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY'" 

spouting.  For  five  minutes,  lost  to  my  sur 
roundings,  I  turned  the  pages;  and  then  be 
came  conscious  that  across  the  table  some  one 
was  watching  me.  I  raised  my  eyes  and  be 
held  a  face  of  most  surprising  charm,  intelli 
gence  and  beauty.  It  was  so  lovely  that  it 
made  me  wince.  The  face  was  the  fortune, 
and  judging  from  the  fact  that  in  her  hand  she 
held  a  salesbook,  the  sole  fortune,  of  a  tall 
young  girl  who  apparently  had  approached  to 
wait  on  me.  She  was  looking  toward  the  street, 
so  that,  with  the  book-shelves  for  a  back 
ground,  her  face  was  in  profile,  and  I  deter 
mined  swiftly  that  if  she  were  to  wait  on  me 
she  would  be  kept  waiting  as  long  as  my  money 
lasted.  I  did  not  want  "The  Log  of  the  Jolly 
Po//y,"  but  I  did  want  to  hear  the  lovely  lady 
speak,  and  especially  I  desired  that  the  one  to 
whom  she  spoke  should  be  myself. 

"What  is  the  price  of  this?"  I  asked.  With 
magnificent  self-control  I  kept  my  eyes  on  the 
book,  but  the  lovely  lady  was  so  long  silent 
that  I  raised  them.  To  my  surprise,  I  found  on 
her  face  an  expression  of  alarm  and  distress. 
With  reluctance,  and  yet  within  her  voice  a 
certain  hopefulness,  she  said,  "  Fifty  dollars." 

Fifty  dollars  was  a  death  blow.  I  had 
planned  to  keep  the  young  lady  selling  books 
the  entire  morning,  but  at  fifty 
332 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY* 

dollars  a  book,  I  would  soon  be  owing  her 
money.  I  attempted  to  gain  time. 

"It  must  be  very  rare!"  I  said.  I  was 
afraid  to  look  at  her  lest  my  admiration  should 
give  offense,  so  I  pretended  to  admire  the  book. 

"It  is  the  only  one  in  existence,"  said  the 
young  lady.  "At  least,  it  is  the  only  one  for 
sale!" 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a 
tall  man  who,  from  his  playing  the  polite  host 
and  from  his  not  wearing  a  hat,  I  guessed  was 
Mr.  Hatchardson  himself.  He  looked  from  the 
book  in  my  hand  to  the  lovely  lady  and  said 
smiling,  "Have  you  lost  it?" 

The  girl  did  not  smile.  To  her,  apparently, 
it  was  no  laughing  matter. 

"I  don't  know — yet,"  she  said. 

Her  voice  was  charming,  and  genuinely  troub 
led. 

Mr.  Hatchardson,  for  later  I  learned  it  was 
he,  took  the  book  and  showed  me  the  title-page. 

"This  was  privately  printed  in  1830,"  he 
said,  "by  Captain  Noah  Briggs.  He  distrib 
uted  a  hundred  presentation  copies  among  his 
family  and  friends  here  in  New  Bedford.  It  is 
a  most  interesting  volume." 

I  did  not  find  it  so.  For  even  as  he  spoke 
the  young  girl,  still  with  a  troubled  counte 
nance,  glided  away.  Inwardly  I  cursed  Captain 

333 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

Briggs  and  associated  with  him  in  my  curse 
the  polite  Mr.  Hatchardson.  But,  at  his  next 
words  my  interest  returned. 

Still  smiling,  he  lowered  his  voice. 

"Miss  Briggs,  the  young  lady  who  just  left 
us,"  he  said,  is  the  granddaughter  of  Captain 
Briggs,  and  she  does  not  want  the  book  to  go 
out  of  the  family;  she  wants  it  for  herself." 

I  interrupted  eagerly. 

"But  it  is  for  sale?" 

Mr.  Hatchardson  reluctantly  assented. 

"Then  I  will  take  it,"  I  said. 

Fifty  dollars  is  a  great  deal  of  money,  but 
the  face  of  the  young  lady  had  been  very  sad. 
Besides  being  sad,  had  it  been  aged,  plain,  and 
ill-tempered,  that  I  still  would  have  bought 
the  book,  is  a  question  I  have  never  determined. 

To  Mr.  Hatchardson,  of  my  purpose  to  give 
the  book  to  Miss  Briggs,  I  said  nothing.  In 
stead  I  planned  to  send  it  to  her  anonymously 
by  mail.  She  would  receive  it  the  next  morn 
ing  when  I  was  arriving  in  New  York,  and,  as 
she  did  not  know  my  name,  she  could  not  pos 
sibly  return  it.  At  the  post-office  I  addressed 
the  "Log"  to  "Miss  Briggs,  care  of  Hatchard- 
son's  Bookstore,"  and  then  I  returned  to  the 
store.  I  felt  I  had  earned  that  pleasure.  This 
time,  Miss  Briggs  was  in  charge  of  the  post 
card  counter,  and  as  now  a  post-card  was  the 

334 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

only  thing  I  could  afford  to  buy,  at  seeing  her 
there  I  was  doubly  pleased.  But  she  was  not 
pleased  to  see  me.  Evidently  Mr.  Hatchard- 
son  had  told  her  I  had  purchased  the  "Log" 
and  at  her  loss  her  very  lovely  face  still  showed 
disappointment.  Toward  me  her  manner  was 
distinctly  aggrieved. 

But  of  the  "Log"  I  said  nothing,  and  began 
recklessly  purchasing  post-cards  that  pictured 
the  show  places  of  New  Bedford.  Almost  the 
first  one  I  picked  up  was  labelled  "Harbor 
Castle.  Residence  of  Fletcher  Farrell."  I  need 
not  say  that  I  studied  it  intently.  According 
to  the  post-card,  Harbor  Castle  stood  on  a 
rocky  point  with  water  on  both  sides.  It  was 
an  enormous,  wide-spreading  structure,  as  large 
as  a  fort.  It  exuded  prosperity,  opulence,  ex 
travagance,  great  wealth.  I  felt  suddenly  a 
filial  impulse  to  visit  the  home  of  my  would-be 
forefathers. 

"Is  this  place  near  here?"  I  asked. 

Miss  Briggs  told  me  that  in  order  to  reach  it 
I  should  take  the  ferry  to  Fairharbor,  and  then 
cross  that  town  to  the  Buzzards  Bay  side. 

"You  can't  miss  it,"  she  said.  "It's  a  big 
stone  house,  with  red  and  white  awnings.  If 
you  see  anything  like  a  jail  in  ruffles,  that's  it." 

It  was  evident  that  with  the  home  I  had  re 
jected  Miss  Briggs  was  unimpressed;  but  see- 

335 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY  POLLY' 

ing  me  add  the  post-card  to  my  collection,  she 
offered  me  another. 

"This,"  she  explained,  "is  Harbor  Castle 
from  the  bay.  That  is  their  yacht  in  the  fore 
ground." 

The  post-card  showed  a  very  beautiful  yacht 
of  not  less  than  two  thousand  tons.  Beneath 
it  was  printed  "Harbor  Lights,  steam  yacht 
owned  by  Fletcher  Farrell."  I  always  had 
dreamed  of  owning  a  steam  yacht,  and  seeing  it 
stated  in  cold  type  that  one  was  owned  by 
"Fletcher  Farrell,"  even  though  I  was  not  that 
Fletcher  Farrell,  gave  me  a  thrill  of  guilty  plea 
sure.  I  gazed  upon  the  post-card  with  envy. 

"Harbor  Lights  is  a  strange  name  for  a 
yacht,"  I  ventured. 

Miss  Briggs  smiled. 

"Not  for  that  yacht,"  she  said.  "She  never 
leaves  it." 

I  wished  to  learn  more  of  my  would-be  par 
ents,  and  I  wished  to  keep  on  talking  with  the 
lovely  Miss  Briggs,  so,  as  an  excuse  for  both, 
I  pretended  I  was  interested  in  the  Farrells 
because  I  had  something  I  wanted  to  sell 
them. 

"This  Fletcher  Farrell  must  be  very  rich," 
I  said.  "I  wonder,"  I  asked,  "if  I  could  sell 
him  an  automobile?"  The  moment  I  spoke  I 
noticed  that  the  manner  of  Miss  Briggs  toward 

336 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY   POLLY' 

me  perceptibly  softened.  Perhaps,  from  my 
buying  offhand  a  fifty-dollar  book  she  had 
thought  me  one  of  the  idle  rich,  and  had  begun 
to  suspect  I  was  keeping  her  waiting  on  me  only 
because  I  found  her  extremely  easy  to  look  at. 
Many  times  before,  in  a  similar  manner,  other 
youths  must  have  imposed  upon  her,  and  per 
haps,  also,  in  concealing  my  admiration,  I  had 
not  entirely  succeeded. 

But,  when  she  believed  that,  like  herself,  I 
was  working  for  my  living,  she  became  more 
human. 

"What  car  are  you  selling?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  trying  to  sell,"  I  corrected  her,  "the 
Blue  Bird,  six  cylinder." 

"I  never  heard  of  it,"  said  Miss  Briggs. 

"Nor  has  any  one  else,"  I  answered,  with 
truth.  "That  is  one  reason  why  I  can't  sell 
it.  I  arrived  here  this  morning,  and,"  I  added 
with  pathos,  "I  haven't  sold  a  car  yet." 

Miss  Briggs  raised  her  beautiful  eyebrows 
sceptically.  "Have  you  tried?"  she  said. 

A  brilliant  idea  came  to  me.  In  a  side 
street  I  had  passed  a  garage  where  Phoenix 
cars  were  advertised  for  hire.  I  owned  a  Phoe 
nix,  and  I  thought  I  saw  a  way  by  which,  for 
a  happy  hour,  I  might  secure  the  society  of 
Miss  Briggs. 

"I  am  an  agent  and  demonstrator  for  the 
337 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

Phoenix  also,"  I  said  glibly;  "maybe  I  could 
show  you  one?" 

"Show  me  one?"  exclaimed  Miss  Briggs. 
"One  sees  them  everywhere!  They  are  always 
under  your  feet!" 

"I  mean,"  I  explained,  "might  I  take  you 
for  a  drive  in  one?" 

It  was  as  though  I  had  completely  vanished. 
So  far  as  the  lovely  Miss  Briggs  was  concerned 
I  had  ceased  to  exist.  She  turned  toward  a 
nice  old  lady. 

"What  can  I  show  you,  Mrs.  Scudder?"  she 
asked  cheerily;  "and  how  is  that  wonderful 
baby?" 

I  felt  as  though  I  had  been  lifted  by  the 
collar,  thrown  out  upon  a  hard  sidewalk,  and 
my  hat  tossed  after  me.  Greatly  shaken,  and 
mentally  brushing  the  dust  from  my  hands  and 
knees,  I  hastened  to  the  ferry  and  crossed  to 
Fairharbor.  I  was  extremely  angry.  By  an 
utter  stranger  I  had  been  misjudged,  snubbed 
and  cast  into  outer  darkness.  For  myself  I 
readily  found  excuses.  If  a  young  woman  was 
so  attractive  that  at  the  first  sight  of  her  men 
could  not  resist  buying  her  fifty-dollar  books 
and  hiring  automobiles  in  which  to  take  her 
driving,  the  fault  was  hers.  I  assured  myself 
that  girls  as  lovely  as  Miss  Briggs  were  a  men 
ace  to  the  public.  They  should  not  be  at  large. 

338 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

An  ordinance  should  require  them  to  go  masked. 
For  Miss  Briggs  also  I  was  able  to  make  ex 
cuses.  Why  should  she  not  protect  herself 
from  the  advances  of  strange  young  men?  If 
a  popular  novelist,  and  especially  an  ex-popular 
one,  chose  to  go  about  disguised  as  a  drummer 
for  the  Blue  Bird  automobile  and  behaved  as 
such,  and  was  treated  as  such,  what  right  had 
he  to  complain?  So  I  persuaded  myself  I  had 
been  punished  as  I  deserved.  But  to  salve  my 
injured  pride  I  assured  myself  also  that  any  one 
who  read  my  novels  ought  to  know  my  attitude 
toward  any  lovely  lady  could  be  only  respect 
ful,  protecting,  and  chivalrous.  But  with  this 
consoling  thought  the  trouble  was  that  nobody 
read  my  novels. 

In  finding  Harbor  Castle  I  had  no  difficulty. 
It  stood  upon  a  rocky  point  that  jutted  into 
Buzzards  Bay.  Five  acres  of  artificial  lawn  and 
flower-beds  of  the  cemetery  and  railroad-sta 
tion  school  of  horticulture  surrounded  it,  and 
from  the  highroad  it  was  protected  by  a  stone 
wall  so  low  that  to  the  passerby,  of  the  beauties 
of  Harbor  Castle  nothing  was  left  to  the  imag 
ination.  Over  this  wall  roses  under  conflict 
ing  banners  of  pink  and  red  fought  fiercely. 
One  could  almost  hear  the  shrieks  of  the 
wounded.  Upon  the  least  thorny  of  these  I 
seated  myself  and  in  tender  melancholy  gazed 

339 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

upon  the  home  of  my  childhood.  That  is, 
upon  the  home  that  might — have — been. 

When  surveying  a  completed  country  home, 
to  make  the  owner  thoroughly  incensed  the 
correct  thing  to  say  is,  "This  place  has  great 
possibilities !" 

Harbor  Castle  had  more  possibilities  than  any 
other  castle  I  ever  visited.  But  in  five  min 
utes  I  had  altered  it  to  suit  myself.  I  had 
ploughed  up  the  flower-beds,  dug  a  sunken 
garden,  planted  a  wind  screen  of  fir,  spruce,  and 
pine,  and  with  a  huge  brick  wall  secured  warmth 
and  privacy.  So  pleased  was  I  with  my 
changes,  that  when  I  departed  I  was  sad  and 
downcast.  The  boat-house  of  which  Mrs.  Far- 
rell  had  spoken  was  certainly  an  ideal  work 
shop,  the  tennis-courts  made  those  at  the 
Newport  Casino  look  like  a  ploughed  field,  and 
the  swimming-pool,  guarded  by  white  pillars 
and  overhung  with  grape-vines,  was  a  cool  and 
refreshing  picture.  As,  hot  and  perspiring,  I 
trudged  back  through  Fairharbor,  the  memory 
of  these  haunted  me.  That  they  also  tempted 
me,  it  is  impossible  to  deny.  But  not  for  long. 
For,  after  passing  through  the  elm-shaded 
streets  to  that  side  of  the  village  that  faced  the 
harbor,  I  came  upon  the  cottages  I  had  seen 
from  the  New  Bedford  shore.  At  close  range 
they  appeared  even  more  attractive  than  when 

340 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY  POLLY* 

pointed  out  to  me  by  the  mate  of  the  steamboat. 
They  were  very  old,  very  weather-stained  and 
covered  with  honeysuckle.  Flat  stones  in  a 
setting  of  grass  led  from  the  gates  to  the  arched 
doorways,  hollyhocks  rose  above  hedges  of 
box,  and  from  the  verandas  one  could  look  out 
upon  the  busy  harbor  and  the  houses  of  New 
Bedford  rising  in  steps  up  the  sloping  hills  to 
a  sky-line  of  tree-tops  and  church  spires.  The 
mate  had  told  me  that  for  what  he  had  rented 
a  flat  in  New  York  he  had  secured  one  of  these 
charming  old  world  homes.  And  as  I  passed 
them  I  began  to  pick  out  the  one  in  which  when 
I  retired  from  the  world  I  would  settle  down. 
This  time  I  made  no  alterations.  How  much 
the  near  presence  of  Miss  Briggs  had  to  do  with 
my  determination  to  settle  down  in  Fairharbor, 
I  cannot  now  remember.  But,  certainly  as  I 
crossed  the  bridge  toward  New  Bedford,  thoughts 
of  her  entirely  filled  my  mind.  I  assured  my 
self  this  was  so  only  because  she  was  beautiful. 
I  was  sure  her  outward  loveliness  advertised  a 
nature  equally  lovely,  but  for  my  sudden  and 
extreme  interest  I  had  other  excuses.  Her  in 
dependence  in  earning  her  living,  her  choice  in 
earning  it  among  books  and  pictures,  her  pride 
of  family  as  shown  by  her  efforts  to  buy  the 
family  heirloom,  all  these  justified  my  admira 
tion.  And  her  refusing  to  go  joy-riding  with 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

an  impertinent  stranger,  even  though  the  im 
pertinent  stranger  was  myself,  was  an  act  I 
applauded.  The  more  I  thought  of  Miss  Briggs 
the  more  was  I  disinclined  to  go  away  leaving 
with  her  an  impression  of  myself  so  unpleasant 
as  the  one  she  then  held.  I  determined  to  re 
move  it.  At  least,  until  I  had  redeemed  my 
self,  I  would  remain  in  New  Bedford.  The  de 
termination  gave  me  the  greatest  satisfaction. 
With  a  light  heart  I  returned  to  the  office  of 
the  steamboat  line  and  retrieving  my  suit-case 
started  with  it  toward  the  Parker  House.  It 
was  now  past  five  o'clock,  the  stores  were  closed, 
and  all  the  people  who  had  not  gone  to  the 
baseball  game  with  Fall  River  were  in  the 
streets.  In  consequence,  as  I  was  passing  the 
post-office,  Miss  Briggs  came  down  the  steps, 
and  we  were  face  to  face. 

In  her  lovely  eyes  was  an  expression  of  min 
gled  doubt  and  indignation  and  in  her  hand, 
freshly  torn  from  the  papers  in  which  I  had 
wrapped  it,  was  "The  Log  of  the  Jolly  Polly" 
In  action  Miss  Briggs  was  as  direct  as  a  sub 
marine.  At  sight  of  me  she  attacked. 

"Did  you  send  me  this?"  she  asked. 

I  lowered  my  bag  to  the  sidewalk  and  pre 
pared  for  battle.  "I  didn't  think  of  your  going 
to  the  post-office,"  I  said.  "I  planned  you'd 
get  it  to-morrow  after  I'd  left.  When  I  sent 
it,  I  thought  I  would  never  see  you  again." 

342 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY* 

"Then  you  did  send  it!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Briggs.  As  though  the  book  were  a  hot 
plate  she  dropped  it  into  my  hand.  She  looked 
straight  at  me,  but  her  expression  suggested 
she  was  removing  a  caterpillar  from  her  pet 
rosebush. 

"  You  had  no  right,"  she  said.  "You  may  not 
have  meant  to  be  impertinent,  but  you  were!" 

Again,  as  though  I  had  disappeared  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  Miss  Briggs  gazed  coldly 
about  her,  and  with  dignity  started  to  cross  the 
street.  Her  dignity  was  so  great  that  she 
glanced  neither  to  the  left  nor  right.  In  con 
sequence  she  did  not  see  an  automobile  that 
swung  recklessly  around  a  trolley-car  and  dived 
at  her.  But  other  people  saw  it  and  shrieked. 
I  also  shrieked,  and  dropping  the  suit-case  and 
the  "Log,"  jumped  into  the  street,  grabbed 
Miss  Briggs  by  both  arms,  and  flung  her  back 
to  the  sidewalk.  That  left  me  where  she  had 
been,  and  the  car  caught  me  up  and  slammed 
me  head  first  against  a  telegraph  pole.  The 
pole  was  hard,  and  if  any  one  counted  me  out 
I  did  not  stay  awake  to  hear  him.  When  I 
came  to  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  lying  on  a 
sidewalk;  but  to  open  my  eyes,  I  was  much  too 
tired.  A  voice  was  saying,  "Do  you  know 
who  he  is,  Miss?" 

The  voice  that  replied  was  the  voice  of  the 
lovely  Miss  Briggs.  But  now  I  hardly  recog- 

343 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY  POLLY' 

nized  it.  It  was  full  of  distress,  of  tenderness 
and  pity. 

"No,  I  don't  know  him,"  it  stammered. 
"He's  a  salesman — he  was  in  the  store  this 
morning — he's  selling  motor-cars/' 

The  first  voice  laughed. 

"Motor-cars!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  why 
he  ain't  scared  of  'em.  He  certainly  saved  you 
from  that  one!  I  seen  him,  Miss  Briggs,  and 
he  most  certainly  saved  your  life!" 

In  response  to  this  astonishing  statement  I 
was  delighted  to  hear  a  well-trained  male  chorus 
exclaim  in  assent. 

The  voices  differed;  some  spoke  in  the  ac 
cents  of  Harvard,  pure  and  undefiled,  some  in 
a  "down  East"  dialect,  others  suggested  Italian 
peanut  venders  and  Portuguese  sailors,  but  all 
agreed  that  the  life  of  Miss  Briggs  had  been 
saved  by  myself.  I  had  intended  coming  to, 
but  on  hearing  the  chorus  working  so  harmoni 
ously  I  decided  I  had  better  continue  uncon 
scious. 

Then  a  new  voice  said  importantly:  "The 
marks  on  his  suitcase  are  'F.  F.,  New  York." 

I  appreciated  instantly  that  to  be  identified 
as  Fletcher  Farrell  meant  humiliation  and  dis 
aster.  The  other  Fletcher  Farrells  would  soon 
return  to  New  Bedford.  They  would  learn 
that  in  their  absence  I  had  been  spying  upon 

344 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

the  home  I  had  haughtily  rejected.  Besides, 
one  of  the  chorus  might  remember  that  three 
years  back  Fletcher  Farrell  had  been  a  popular 
novelist  and  might  recognize  me,  and  Miss 
Briggs  would  discover  I  was  not  an  automobile 
agent  and  that  I  had  lied  to  her.  I  saw  that  I 
must  continue  to  lie  to  her.  I  thought  of  names 
beginning  with  "F,"  and  selected  "Frederick 
Fitzgibbon."  To  christen  yourself  while  your 
eyes  are  shut  and  your  head  rests  on  a  curb 
stone  is  not  easy,  and  later  I  was  sorry  I  had  not 
called  myself  Fairchild  as  being  more  aristo 
cratic.  But  then  it  was  too  late.  As  Fitz 
gibbon  I  had  come  back  to  life,  and  as  Fitz 
gibbon  I  must  remain. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  I  found  the  first 
voice  belonged  to  a  policeman  who  helped  me 
to  my  feet  and  held  in  check  the  male  chorus. 
The  object  of  each  was  to  lead  me  to  a  drink. 
But  instead  I  turned  dizzily  to  Miss  Briggs. 
She  was  holding  my  hat  and  she  handed  it  to 
me.  Her  lovely  eyes  were  filled  with  relief 
and  her  charming  voice  with  remorse. 

"I — I  can't  possibly  thank  you,"  she  stam 
mered.  "Are  you  badly  hurt?" 

I  felt  I  had  never  listened  to  words  so  original 
and  well  chosen.  In  comparison,  the  brilliant 
and  graceful  speeches  I  had  placed  on  the  lips 
of  my  heroines  became  flat  and  unconvincing, 

345 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

I  assured  her  I  was  not  at  all  hurt  and  en 
deavored,  jauntily,  to  replace  my  hat.  But 
where  my  head  had  hit  the  telegraph  pole  a 
large  bump  had  risen  which  made  my  hat  too 
small.  So  I  hung  it  on  the  bump.  It  gave  me 
a  rakish  air.  One  of  the  chorus  returned  my 
bag  and  another  the  "Log."  Not  wishing  to 
remind  Miss  Briggs  of  my  past  impertinences  I 
guiltily  concealed  it. 

Then  the  policeman  asked  my  name  and  I 
gave  the  one  I  had  just  invented,  and  inquired 
my  way  to  the  Parker  House.  Half  the  chorus 
volunteered  to  act  as  my  escort,  and  as  I  de 
parted,  I  stole  a  last  look  at  Miss  Briggs.  She 
and  the  policeman  were  taking  down  the  pedi 
gree  of  the  chauffeur  of  the  car  that  had  hit  me. 
He  was  trying  to  persuade  them  he  was  not 
intoxicated,  and  with  each  speech  was  furnish 
ing  evidence  to  the  contrary. 

After  I  had  given  a  cold  bath  to  the  bump 
on  my  head  and  to  the  rest  of  my  body  which 
for  the  moment  seemed  the  lesser  of  the  two, 
I  got  into  dry  things  and  seated  myself  on  the 
veranda  of  the  hotel.  With  a  cigar  to  soothe 
my  jangling  nerves,  I  considered  the  position 
of  Miss  Briggs  and  myself.  I  was  happy  in 
believing  it  had  improved.  On  the  morrow 
there  was  no  law  to  prevent  me  from  visit 
ing  Hatchardson's  Bookstore,  and  in  view  of 

346 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

what  had  happened  since  last  I  left  ft,  I  had 
reason  to  hope  Miss  Briggs  would  receive  me 
more  kindly.  Of  the  correctness  of  this  diag 
nosis  I  was  at  once  assured.  In  front  of  the 
hotel  a  district  messenger-boy  fell  off  his  bi 
cycle  and  with  unerring  instinct  picked  me  out 
as  Mr.  Fitzgibbon  of  New  York.  The  note  he 
carried  was  from  Miss  Briggs.  It  stated  that 
in  the  presence  of  so  many  people  it  had  been 
impossible  for  her  to  thank  me  as  she  wished 
for  the  service  I  had  rendered  her,  and  that 
Mrs.  Cutler,  with  whom  she  boarded,  and  her 
self,  would  be  glad  if  after  supper  I  would  call 
upon  them.  I  gave  the  messenger-boy  enough 
gold  to  enable  him  to  buy  a  new  bicycle  and  in 
my  room  executed  a  dance  symbolizing  joy. 
I  then  kicked  my  suit-case  under  the  bed.  I 
would  not  soon  need  it.  Now  that  Miss  Briggs 
had  forgiven  me,  I  was  determined  to  live  and 
die  in  New  Bedford. 

The  home  of  Mrs.  Cutler,  where  Miss  Briggs 
lodged  and  boarded,  was  in  a  side  street  of  re 
spectable  and  distinguished  antiquity.  The 
street  itself  was  arched  with  the  branches  of 
giant  elms,  and  each  house  was  an  island  sur 
rounded  by  grass,  and  over  the  porches  climbed 
roses.  It  was  too  warm  to  remain  indoors,  so 
we  sat  on  the  steps  of  the  porch,  and  through 
the  leaves  of  the  elms  the  electric  light  globe 

347 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

served  us  as  a  moon.  For  an  automobile  sales 
man  I  was  very  shy,  very  humble. 

Twice  before  I  had  given  offense  and  I  was 
determined  if  it  lay  with  me,  it  would  not 
happen  again.  I  did  not  hope  to  interest  Miss 
Briggs  in  myself,  nor  did  I  let  it  appear  how 
tremendously  I  was  interested  in  her.  For  the 
moment  I  was  only  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land 
making  a  social  call.  I  asked  Miss  Briggs 
about  New  Bedford  and  the  whaling,  about 
the  books  she  sold,  and  the  books  she  liked. 
It  was  she  who  talked.  When  I  found  we 
looked  at  things  in  the  same  way  and  that  the 
same  things  gave  us  pleasure  I  did  not  com 
ment  on  that  astonishing  fact,  but  as  an  asset 
more  precious  than  gold,  stored  it  away.  When 
I  returned  to  the  hotel  I  found  that  concerning 
Miss  Briggs  I  had  made  important  discoveries. 
I  had  learned  that  her  name  was  Polly,  that 
the  Jolly  Polly  had  been  christened  after  her 
grandmother,  that  she  was  an  orphan,  that 
there  were  relatives  with  whom  she  did  not 
"hit  it  off,"  that  she  was  very  well  read,  pos 
sessed  of  a  most  charming  sense  of  humor, 
and  that  I  found  her  the  most  attractive  girl 
I  had  ever  met. 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  in  an  exalted 
frame  of  mind.  I  was  in  love  with  life,  with 
New  Bedford,  and  with  Polly  Briggs.  I  had 

348 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

been  in  love  before,  but  never  with  a  young 
lady  who  worked  in  a  shop,  and  I  found  that 
loving  a  lady  so  occupied  gives  one  a  tremendous 
advantage.  For  when  you  call  she  must  al 
ways  be  at  home,  nor  can  she  plead  another 
engagement.  So,  before  noon,  knowing  she 
could  not  deny  herself,  I  was  again  at  Hatch- 
ardson's,  purchasing  more  postal-cards.  But 
Miss  Briggs  was  not  deceived.  Nor  appar 
ently  was  any  one  else.  The  Bedford  Mercury 
had  told  how,  the  previous  evening,  Frederick 
Fitzgibbon,  an  automobile  salesman  from  New 
York,  had  been  knocked  out  by  an  automobile 
while  saving  Miss  Polly  Briggs  from  a  similar 
fate;  and  Mr.  Hatchardson  and  all  the  old 
ladies  who  were  in  the  bookstore  making  pur 
chases  congratulated  me.  It  was  evident  that 
in  Miss  Briggs  they  took  much  more  than  a 
perfunctory  interest.  They  were  very  fond  of 
her.  She  was  an  institution;  and  I  could  see 
that  as  such  to  visitors  she  would  be  pointed 
out  with  pride,  as  was  the  new  bronze  statue 
of  the  Whaleman  in  Court  House  Square.  Nor 
did  they  cease  discussing  her  until  they  had 
made  it  quite  clear  to  me  that  in  being  knocked 
out  in  her  service  I  was  a  very  lucky  man.  I 
did  not  need  to  be  told  that,  especially  as  I 
noted  that  Miss  Briggs  was  anxious  lest  I  should 
not  be  properly  modest.  Indeed,  her  wish  that 

349 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY  POLLY' 

in  the  eyes  of  the  old  ladies  I  should  appear  to 
advantage  was  so  evident,  and  her  interest  in 
me  so  proprietary,  that  I  was  far  from  unhappy. 

The  afternoon  I  spent  in  Fairharbor.  From 
a  real  estate  agent  I  obtained  keys  to  those 
cottages  on  the  water-front  that  were  for  rent, 
and  I  busied  myself  exploring  them.  The  one 
I  most  liked  I  pretended  I  had  rented,  and  I 
imagined  myself  at  work  among  the  flower 
beds,  or  with  my  telescope  scanning  the  ship 
ping  in  the  harbor,  or  at  night  seated  in  front 
of  the  open  fire  watching  the  green  and  blue 
flames  of  the  driftwood.  Later,  irresolutely,  I 
wandered  across  town  to  Harbor  Castle,  this 
time  walking  entirely  around  it  and  coming 
upon  a  sign  that  read,  "Visitors  Welcome.  Do 
not  pick  the  flowers." 

Assuring  myself  that  I  was  moved  only  by 
curiosity,  I  accepted  the  invitation,  nor,  though 
it  would  greatly  have  helped  the  appearance  of 
the  cemetery-like  beds,  did  I  pick  the  flowers. 
On  a  closer  view  Harbor  Castle  certainly  pos 
sessed  features  calculated  to  make  an  impecu 
nious  author  stop,  look,  and  listen.  I  pictured 
it  peopled  with  my  friends.  I  saw  them  at  the 
long  mahogany  table  of  which  through  the 
French  window  I  got  a  glimpse,  or  dancing  in 
the  music-room,  or  lounging  on  the  wicker 
chairs  on  the  sweeping  verandas.  I  could  see 

350 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

them  in  flannels  at  tennis,  in  bathing-suits  div 
ing  from  the  spring-board  of  the  swimming- 
pool,  departing  on  excursions  in  the  motor-cars 
that  at  the  moment  in  front  of  the  garage  were 
being  sponged  and  polished,  so  that  they  flashed 
like  mirrors.  And  I  thought  also  of  the  two- 
thousand-ton  yacht  and  to  what  far  countries, 
to  what  wonderful  adventures  it  might  carry 
me. 

But  all  of  these  pictures  lacked  one  feature. 
In  none  of  them  did  Polly  Briggs  appear.  For, 
as  I  very  well  knew,  that  was  something  the 
ambitions  of  Mrs.  Farrell  would  not  permit. 
That  lady  wanted  me  as  a  son  only  because  she 
thought  I  was  a  social  asset.  By  the  same 
reasoning,  as  a  daughter-in-law,  she  would  not 
want  a  shop-girl,  especially  not  one  who  as  a 
shop-girl  was  known  to  all  New  Bedford.  My 
mood  as  I  turned  my  back  upon  the  golden 
glories  of  Harbor  Castle  and  walked  to  New 
Bedford  was  thoughtful. 

I  had  telegraphed  my  servant  to  bring  me 
more  clothes  and  my  Phoenix  car;  and  as  I 
did  not  want  him  inquiring  for  Fletcher  Farrell 
had  directed  him  to  come  by  boat  to  Fall  River. 
Accordingly,  the  next  morning,  I  took  the  trol 
ley  to  that  city,  met  him  at  the  wharf,  and  sent 
him  back  to  New  York.  I  gave  him  a  check 
with  instructions  to  have  it  cashed  in  that 

351 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

city  and  to  send  the  money,  and  my  mail,  to 
Frederick  Fitzgibbon.  This  alias  I  explained 
to  him  by  saying  I  was  gathering  material  for 
an  article  to  prove  one  could  live  on  fifty  cents 
a  day.  He  was  greatly  relieved  to  learn  I  did 
not  need  a  valet  to  help  me  prove  it. 

I  returned  driving  the  Phoenix  to  New  Bed 
ford,  and  as  it  was  a  Saturday,  when  the  store 
closed  at  noon,  I  had  the  ineffable  delight  of 
taking  Polly  Briggs  for  a  drive.  As  chaperons 
she  invited  two  young  friends  of  hers  named 
Lowell.  They  had  been  but  very  lately  mar 
ried,  and  regarded  me  no  more  than  a  chauffeur 
they  had  hired  by  the  hour.  This  left  Polly 
who  was  beside  me  on  the  front  seat,  and  my 
self,  to  our  own  devices.  Our  devices  were 
innocent  enough.  They  consisted  in  convey 
ing  the  self-centred  Lowells  so  far  from  home 
that  they  could  not  get  back  for  supper  and 
were  so  forced  to  dine  with  me.  Polly,  for  as 
Polly  I  now  thought  of  her,  discovered  the  place. 
It  was  an  inn,  on  the  edge  of  a  lake  with  an 
Indian  name.  We  did  not  get  home  until  late, 
but  it  had  been  such  a  successful  party  that 
before  we  separated  we  planned  another  jour 
ney  for  the  morrow.  That  one  led  to  the  Cape 
by  way  of  Bourne  and  Wood's  Hole,  and  back 
again  to  the  North  Shore  to  Barnstable,  where 
we  lunched.  It  was  a  grand  day  and  the  first 

352 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

of  others  just  as  happy.  After  that  every  after 
noon  when  the  store  closed  I  picked  up  the 
Lowells  and  then  Polly,  and  we  sought  adven 
tures.  Sometimes  we  journeyed  no  farther 
than  the  baseball  park,  but  as  a  rule  I  drove 
them  to  some  inn  for  dinner,  where  later,  if 
there  were  music,  we  danced,  if  not,  we  returned 
slowly  through  the  pine  woods  and  so  home  by 
the  longest  possible  route.  The  next  Saturday 
I  invited  them  to  Boston.  We  started  early, 
dined  at  the  Touraine  and  went  on  to  a  musical 
comedy,  where  I  had  reserved  seats  in  the 
front  row.  This  nearly  led  to  my  undoing. 
Late  in  the  first  act  a  very  merry  party  of  young 
people  who  had  come  up  from  Newport  and 
Narragansett  to  the  Coates-Islip  wedding  filled 
the  stage  boxes  and  at  sight  of  me  began  to 
wave  and  beckon.  They  were  so  insistent  that 
between  the  acts  I  thought  it  safer  to  visit  them. 
They  wanted  to  know  why  I  had  not  appeared 
at  the  wedding,  and  who  was  the  beautiful  girl. 

The  next  morning  on  our  return  trip  to  New 
Bedford  Polly  said,  "I  read  in  the  papers  this 
morning  that  those  girls  in  that  theatre  party 
last  night  were  the  bridesmaids  at  the  Coates- 
Islip  wedding.  They  seemed  to  know  you  quite 
well." 

I  explained  that  in  selling  automobiles  one 
became  acquainted  with  many  people. 

353 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY"' 

Polly  shook  her  head  and  laughed.  Then 
she  turned  and  looked  at  me. 

"You  never  sold  an  automobile  in  your  life," 
she  said. 

With  difficulty  I  kept  my  eyes  on  the  road; 
but  I  protested  vigorously. 

"Don't  think  I  have  been  spying,"  said 
Polly;  "I  found  you  out  quite  by  accident. 
Yesterday  a  young  man  I  know  asked  me  to 
persuade  you  to  turn  in  your  Phoenix  and  let 
him  sell  you  one  of  the  new  model.  I  said  you 
yourself  were  the  agent  for  the  Phoenix,  and  he 
said  that,  on  the  contrary,  he  was,  and  that 
you  had  no  right  to  sell  the  car  in  his  territory." 

I  grinned  guiltily  and  said: 

"Well,  I  haven't  sold  any,  have  I?" 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  protested  Polly. 
"What  was  your  reason  for  telling  me  you  were 
trying  to  earn  a  living  selling  automobiles?" 

"So  that  I  could  take  you  driving  in  one,"  I 
answered. 

"Oh!  "exclaimed  Polly. 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  in  much  in 
ward  trepidation  I  avoided  meeting  her  eyes. 
Then  Polly  added  thoughtfully,  "I  think  that 
was  a  very  good  reason." 

In  our  many  talks  the  name  of  the  Fletcher 
Farrells  had  never  been  mentioned.  I  had  been 
most  careful  to  avoid  it.  As  each  day  passed, 

354 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

and  their  return  imminent,  and  in  consequence 
my  need  to  fly  grew  more  near,  and  the  name 
was  still  unspoken,  I  was  proportionately  grate 
ful.  But  when  the  name  did  come  up  I  had 
reason  to  be  pleased,  for  Polly  spoke  it  with 
approval,  and  it  was  not  of  the  owner  of  Har 
bor  Castle  she  was  speaking,  but  of  myself. 
It  was  one  evening  about  two  weeks  after  we 
had  met,  and  I  had  side-stepped  the  Lowells 
and  was  motoring  with  Polly  alone.  We  were 
talking  of  our  favorite  authors,  dead  and  alive. 

"You  may  laugh,"  said  Polly,  and  she  said 
it  defiantly,  "and  I  don't  know  whether  you 
would  call  him  among  the  dead  or  the  living, 
but  I  am  very  fond  of  Fletcher  Farrell!" 

My  heart  leaped.  I  was  so  rattled  that  I 
nearly  ran  the  car  into  a  stone  wall.  I  thought 
I  was  discovered  and  that  Polly  was  playing 
with  me.  But  her  next  words  showed  that  she 
was  innocent.  She  did  not  know  that  the  man 
to  whom  she  was  talking  and  of  whom  she  was 
talking  were  the  same.  "Of  course  you  will 
say,"  she  went  on,  "that  he  is  too  romantic, 
that  he  is  not  true  to  life.  But  I  never  lived  in 
the  seventeenth  century,  so  I  don't  know 
whether  he  is  true  to  life  or  not.  And  I  like 
romance.  The  life  I  lead  in  the  store  gives 
me  all  the  reality  I  want.  I  like  to  read  about 
brave  men  and  '  great  and  gracious  ladies.' 

355 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

I  never  met  any  girls  like  those  Farrell  writes 
about,  but  it's  nice  to  think  they  exist.  I  wish 
I  were  like  them.  And,  his  men,  too — they 
make  love  better  than  any  other  man  I  ever 
read  about." 

"Better  than  I  do?"  I  asked. 

Polly  gazed  at  the  sky,  frowning  severely. 
After  a  pause,  and  as  though  she  had  dropped 
my  remark  into  the  road  and  the  wheels  had 
crushed  it,  she  said,  coldly,  "Talking  about 
books " 

"No,"  I  corrected,  "we  were  talking  about 
Fletcher  Farrell." 

"Then,"  said  Polly  with  some  asperity, 
"don't  change  the  subject.  Do  you  know," 
she  went  on  hurriedly,  "that  you  look  like  him 
— like  the  pictures  of  him — as  he  was." 

"Heavens!"  I  exclaimed,  "the  man's  not 
dead!" 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  protested  Polly. 
"As  he  was  before  he  stopped  writing." 

"Nor  has  he  stopped  writing,"  I  objected; 
"his  books  have  stopped  selling." 

Polly  turned  upon  me  eagerly. 

"Do  you  know  him?"  she  demanded. 

I  answered  with  caution  that  I  had  met  him. 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  "tell  me  about  him!" 

I  was  extremely  embarrassed.  It  was  a  bad 
place.  About  myself  I  could  not  say  any- 

356 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

thing  pleasant,  and  behind  my  back,  as  it  were, 
I  certainly  was  not  going  to  say  anything  un 
pleasant.  But  Polly  relieved  me  of  the  neces 
sity  of  saying  anything. 

"I  don't  know  any  man,"  she  exclaimed 
fervently,  "I  would  so  like  to  meet!" 

It  seemed  to  me  that  after  that  the  less  I 
said  the  better.  So  I  told  her  something  was 
wrong  with  the  engine  and  by  the  time  I  had 
pretended  to  fix  it,  I  had  led  the  conversation 
away  from  Fletcher  Farrell  as  a  novelist  to 
myself  as  a  chauffeur. 

The  next  morning  at  the  hotel,  temptation 
was  again  waiting  for  me.  This  time  it  came 
in  the  form  of  a  letter  from  my  prospective 
father-in-law.  It  had  been  sent  from  Cape 
May  to  my  address  in  New  York,  and  by  my 
servant  forwarded  in  an  envelope  addressed  to 
"Frederick  Fitzgibbon." 

It  was  what  in  the  world  of  commerce  is 
called  a  "follow-up"  letter.  It  recalled  the 
terms  of  his  offer  to  me,  and  improved  upon 
them.  It  made  it  clear  that  even  after  meet 
ing  me  Mr.  Farrell  and  his  wife  were  still 
anxious  to  stand  for  me  as  a  son.  They  were 
good  enough  to  say  they  had  found  me  a  "per 
fect  gentleman."  They  hoped  that  after  con 
sidering  their  proposition  I  had  come  to  look 
upon  it  with  favor. 

357 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY   POLLY' 

As  his  son,  Mr.  Farrell  explained,  my  an 
nual  allowance  would  be  the  interest  on  one 
million  dollars,  and  upon  his  death  his  entire 
fortune  and  property  he  would  bequeath  to 
me.  He  was  willing,  even  anxious,  to  put  this 
in  writing.  In  a  week  he  would  return  to  Fair- 
harbor  when  he  hoped  to  receive  a  favorable 
answer.  In  the  meantime  he  enclosed  a  letter 
to  his  housekeeper. 

"Don't  take  anything  for  granted,"  he  urged, 
"but  go  to  Fairharbor  and  present  this  letter. 
See  the  place  for  yourself.  Spend  the  week 
there  and  act  like  you  were  the  owner.  My 
housekeeper  has  orders  to  take  her  orders  from 
you.  Don't  refuse  something  you  have  never 
seen!" 

This  part  of  the  letter  made  me  feel  as  mean 
and  uncomfortable  as  a  wet  hen.  The  open, 
almost  too  open,  methods  of  Mr.  Farrell  made 
my  own  methods  appear  contemptible.  He 
was  urging  me  to  be  his  guest  and  I  was  playing 
the  spy.  But  against  myself  my  indignation 
did  not  last.  A  letter,  bearing  a  special  de 
livery  stamp  which  arrived  later  in  the  after 
noon  from  Mrs.  Farrell,  turned  my  indignation 
against  her,  and  with  bitterness.  She  also  had 
been  spying.  Her  letter  read: 

The  Pinkerton  I  employed  to  report  on  you  states  that 
after  losing  you  for  a  week  he  located  you  at  New  Bedford, 
that  you  are  living  under  the  name  of  Fitzgibbon,  and 

358 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE   'JOLLY   POLLY' 

that  you  have  made  yourself  conspicuous  by  attentions 
to  a  young  person  employed  in  a  shop.  This  is  for  me 
a  great  blow  and  disappointment,  and  I  want  you  to 
clearly  understand  Mr.  Farrell's  offer  is  made  to  you  as 
an  unmarried  man.  I  cannot  believe  your  attentions  are 
serious,  but  whether  they  are  serious  or  not,  they  must 
cease.  The  detective  reports  the  pair  of  you  are  now 
the  talk  of  Fairharbor.  You  are  making  me  ridiculous. 
I  do  not  want  a  shop-girl  for  a  daughter-in-law  and  you 
will  either  give  up  her  acquaintance  or  give  up  Harbor 
Castle ! 

I  am  no  believer  in  ultimatums.  In  attain 
ing  one's  end  they  seldom  prove  successful. 
I  tore  the  note  into  tiny  pieces,  and  defiantly, 
with  Polly  in  the  seat  beside  me;  drove  into  the 
open  country.  At  first  we  picked  our  way 
through  New  Bedford,  from  the  sidewalks  her 
friends  waved  to  her,  and  my  acquaintances 
smiled.  The  detective  was  right.  We  had 
indeed  made  ourselves  the  talk  of  the  town,  and 
I  was  determined  the  talk  must  cease. 

We  had  reached  Ruggles  Point  when  the  car 
developed  an  illness.  I  got  out  to  investigate. 
On  both  sides  of  the  road  were  tall  hemlocks 
and  through  them  to  the  west  we  could  see  the 
waters  of  Sippican  Harbor  in  the  last  yellow 
rays  of  the  sun  as  it  sank  behind  Rochester. 
Overhead  was  the  great  harvest  moon. 

Polly  had  taken  from  the  pocket  of  the  car 
some  maps  and  guide-books,  and  while  I  lifted 
the  hood  and  was  deep  in  the  machinery  she 
was  turning  them  over. 

359 


"What,"  she  asked,  "is  the  number  of  this 
car?  I  forget." 

As  I  have  said,  I  was  preoccupied  and  deep 
in  the  machinery;  that  is,  with  a  pair  of  pliers 
I  was  wrestling  with  a  recalcitrant  wire.  Un 
suspiciously  I  answered: 

"Eight-two-eight." 

A  moment  later  I  heard  a  sharp  cry,  and 
raised  my  head.  With  eyes  wide  in  terror 
Polly  was  staring  at  an  open  book.  Without 
appreciating  my  danger  I  recognized  it  as 
"Who's  Who  in  Automobiles."  The  voice  of 
Polly  rose  in  a  cry  of  disbelief. 

"Eight-two-eight,"  she  read,  "owned  by 
Fletcher  Farrell,  Hudson  Apartments,  New 
York  City."  She  raised  her  eyes  to  mine. 

"Is  that  true?"  she  gasped.  "Are  you 
Fletcher  Farrell?" 

I  leaned  into  the  car  and  got  hold  of  her  hand. 

"That  is  not  important,"  I  stammered. 
"What  is  important  is  this:  Will  you  be  Mrs. 
Fletcher  Farrell?" 

What  she  said  may  be  guessed  from  the  fact 
that  before  we  returned  to  New  Bedford  we 
drove  to  Fairharbor  and  I  showed  her  the  cot 
tage  I  liked  best.  It  was  the  one  with  the  old 
est  clapboard  shingles,  the  oldest  box  hedge, 
the  most  fragrant  honeysuckles,  and  a  lawn 
that  wet  its  feet  in  the  surf.  Polly  liked  it 
the  best,  too. 

360 


By  now  the  daylight  had  gone,  and  on  the 
ships  the  riding  lights  were  shining,  but  shin 
ing  sulkily,  for  the  harvest  moon  filled  the 
world  with  golden  radiance.  As  we  stood  on 
the  porch  of  the  empty  cottage,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  honeysuckles,  Poliy  asked  an  impossible 
question.  It  was: 

"How  much  do  you  love  me?" 

"You  will  never  know,"  I  told  her,  "but  I 
can  tell  you  this:  I  love  you  more  than  a  two- 
thousand-ton  yacht,  the  interest  on  one  million 
dollars,  and  Harbor  Castle!" 

It  was  a  wasteful  remark,  for  Polly  instantly 
drew  away. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  laughed. 

"Fletcher  Farrell  of  Harbor  Castle,"  I  ex 
plained,  "offered  me  those  things,  minus  you. 
But  I  wanted  you." 

"I  see,"  cried  Polly,  "he  wanted  to  adopt 
you.  He  always  talks  of  that.  I  am  sorry 
for  him.  He  wants  a  son  so  badly." 

She  sighed  softly,  "Poor  uncle!" 

"Poor  what!"  I  yelled. 

"Didn't  you  know,"  exclaimed  Polly,  "that 
Mrs.  Farrell  was  a  Briggs !  She  was  my 
father's  sister." 

"Then  you,"  I  said,  "are  the  relation  who 
was  'too  high  and  mighty'!" 

Polly  shook  her  head. 
361 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY* 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  didn't  want  to  be  de 
pendent." 

"And  you  gave  up  all  that,"  I  exclaimed, 
"and  worked  at  Hatchardson's,  just  because 
you  didn't  want  to  be  dependent!" 

"I  like  my  uncle-in-law  very  much,"  ex 
plained  Polly,  "but  not  my  aunt.  So,  it  was 
no  temptation.  No  more,"  she  cried,  looking 
at  me  as  though  she  were  proud  of  me,  "than 
it  was  to  you!" 

In  guilty  haste  I  changed  the  subject.  In 
other  words,  I  kissed  her.  I  knew  some  day 
I  would  have  to  confess.  But  until  we  were 
safely  married  that  could  wait.  Before  con 
fessing  I  would  make  sure  of  her  first.  The 
next  day  we  announced  our  engagement  and 
Polly  consented  that  it  should  be  a  short  one. 
For,  as  I  pointed  out,  already  she  had  kept 
me  waiting  thirty  years.  The  newspapers  dug 
up  the  fact  that  I  had  once  been  a  popular 
novelist,  and  the  pictures  they  published  of 
Polly  proved  her  so  beautiful  that,  in  congratu 
lation,  I  received  hundreds  of  telegrams.  The 
first  one  to  arrive  came  from  Cape  May.  It 
read: 

My  dear  boy — your  uncle  elect  sends  his  heartiest  con 
gratulations  to  you  and  love  to  Polly.  Don't  make  any 
plans  until  you  hear  from  me — am  leaving  to-night. 

FLETCHER  FARRELL. 
362 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY' 

In  terror  Polly  fled  into  my  arms.  Even 
when  not  in  terror  it  was  a  practice  I  strongly 
encouraged. 

"We  are  lost!"  she  cried.  "They  will  adopt 
us  in  spite  of  ourselves.  They  will  lock  us  up 
for  life  in  Harbor  Castle!  I  don't  want  to  be 
adopted.  I  want  you  /  I  want  my  little  cot 
tage!" 

I  assured  her  she  should  have  her  little  cot 
tage;  I  had  already  bought  it.  And  during  the 
two  weeks  before  the  wedding,  when  I  was  not 
sitting  around  Boston  while  Polly  bought  clothes, 
we  refurnished  it.  Polly  furnished  the  library, 
chiefly  with  my  own  books,  and  "The  Log  of 
the  Jolly  Polly."  I  furnished  the  kitchen. 
For  a  man  cannot  live  on  honeysuckles  alone. 

My  future  uncle-in-law  was  gentle  but  firm. 

"You  can't  get  away  from  the  fact,"  he  said, 
"that  you  will  be  my  nephew,  whether  you 
like  it  or  not.  So,  be  kind  to  an  old  man  and 
let  him  give  the  bride  away  and  let  her  be 
married  from  Harbor  Castle." 

In  her  white  and  green  High  Flier  car  and 
all  of  her  diamonds,  Mrs.  Farrell  called  on 
Polly  and  begged  the  same  boon.  We  were 
too  happy  to  see  any  one  else  dissatisfied;  so 
though  we  had  planned  the  quietest  of  weddings, 
we  gave  consent.  Somehow  we  survived  it. 
But  now  we  recall  it  only  as  that  terrible  time 

363 


'THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY* 

when  we  were  never  alone.  For  once  in  the 
hands  of  our  rich  relations  the  quiet  wedding 
we  had  arranged  became  a  royal  alliance,  a 
Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  the  chief  point  of 
attack  for  the  moving-picture  men. 

The  youths  who  came  from  New  York  to  act 
as  my  ushers  informed  me  that  the  Ushers' 
Dinner  at  Harbor  Castle — from  which,  after 
the  fish  course,  I  had  fled — was  considered  by 
them  the  most  successful  ushers'  dinner  in  their 
career  of  crime.  My  uncle-in-law  also  testi 
fies  to  this.  He  ought  to  know.  At  four  in 
the  morning  he  was  assisting  the  ushers  in 
throwing  the  best  man  and  the  butler  into  the 
swimming-pool. 

For  our  honeymoon  he  loaned  us  the  yacht. 
"Take  her  as  far  as  you  like,"  he  said.  "After 
this  she  belongs  to  you  and  Polly.  And  find 
a  better  name  for  her  than  Harbor  Lights.  It 
sounds  too  much  like  a  stay-at-home.  And  I 
want  you  two  to  see  the  world." 

I  thanked  him,  and  suggested  he  might  re- 
christen  her  the  Jolly  Polly. 

"That  was  the  name,"  I  pointed  out,  "of  the 
famous  whaler  owned  by  Captain  Briggs,  your 
wife's  father,  and  it  would  be  a  compliment  to 
Polly,  too." 

My  uncle-in-law-elect  agreed  heartily;  but 
made  one  condition: 

364 


"THE  LOG  OF  THE  'JOLLY  POLLY* 

"I'll  christen  her  that,"  he  said,  "if  you  will 
promise  to  write  a  new  Log  of  the  Jolly  Polly." 
I  promised. 
This  is  it. 


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